


Storm Clouds Large and Small

by AnGoose



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Frank Castle is...an age, Identity Reveal, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Peter Parker is 16, Slow Burn, There will be intimate touching someday I swear, they'll kiss eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24736468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnGoose/pseuds/AnGoose
Summary: Peter Parker can’t seem to catch a break, but for some reason The Punisher is there to catch him when he falls.Or: Frank Castle finds out Spider-Man is just a kid, and assigns himself a new mission.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Peter Parker
Comments: 188
Kudos: 228
Collections: Stories Which Made for a Better Day





	1. Just One of Those Days

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [WaterMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe) for enabling/cheer reading/beta reading the shit out of this.
> 
> Also, please heed the tags! While it won't happen for awhile, this is an E rated fic about a relationship between High School Peter Parker and an adult Frank Castle.
> 
> Happy Reading!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the past 14 days alone, he’s been side-swiped by a train, then punched in the ribs by the person he’d been pulling out of the way of said train (and then hugged fiercely by that person, pummeled some more, tightly re-hugged, and, finally, wept on as he tried to find a place to bring them without dooming them to a lifetime of medical debt or involuntary incarceration). He’s been kicked repeatedly by The Punisher wearing steel-toed boots. He was hit with a galvanized steel beam while saving someone’s St. Bernard from a fire. The beam hadn’t actually gotten him in the ribs—he hadn’t been able to see over the dog’s massive head, and had tripped on the curb on his way out.
> 
> Peter's week doesn't start as well as he would have hoped.

* * *

Every weekday morning at approximately six am, Peter Parker gives himself precisely five minutes to regret all of his life decisions.

Today, he gives himself six.

Then, morning mope complete, he pries himself out of bed and stumbles into the bathroom to wash off the sweat and grime from the previous night’s activities as Spider-Man. It feels gross to wake up blood-stained and gritty, but May would be suspicious if he frequently took showers at 2am.

Last night’s savage cat attack had been bordering on ‘2am emergency shower’ territory. Peter winces as he examines his blood-crusted arm. The poor little demon had been more scared than angry when Peter plucked it out of a storm drain, but its tiny little claws still managed a shocking amount of damage. He’s had fights with drunk MMA enthusiasts that hurt less, Peter thinks wryly, poking at his new scabs. Mostly healed, although it’s hard to tell through bleary, not-quite-awake eyes. 

At least the kitten’s owner had been friendlier than her pet. The young woman had been very grateful, and excessively huggy. She’d even offered to take him home and ‘play nurse’ for him. He still isn't sure why she'd looked so disappointed when he assured her that he had bandaids at home.

He continues his cursory inspection, prodding at his ribs. They’re fine, and he heaves a giant (blessedly pain-free) sigh of relief. The past few weeks have been hard on them, and he was beginning to wonder if they’d ever stop aching. 

In the past 14 days alone, he’s been side-swiped by a train, then punched in the ribs by the person he’d been pulling out of the way of said train (and then hugged fiercely by that person, pummeled some more, tightly re-hugged, and, finally, wept on as he tried to find a place to bring them without dooming them to a lifetime of medical debt or involuntary incarceration). He’s been kicked repeatedly by The Punisher wearing steel-toed boots. He was hit with a galvanized steel beam while saving someone’s St. Bernard from a fire. The beam hadn’t actually gotten him in the ribs—he hadn’t been able to see over the dog’s massive head, and had tripped on the curb on his way out. 

The flaming beam had definitely been a 2am shower event. When May had woken up asking about what the burning smell was, Peter said something about the neighbors and popcorn. At least sleepy-May wasn’t coherent enough to ask why the neighbors (who went to bed at 9:30 and woke up at 5:00 like clockwork) were burning popcorn that smelled like melting spandex and singed dog hair in the middle of a Tuesday night. Or why Peter had dog drool all over his face and neck. He can still smell the dog slobber when he wears that mask, even though he’s washed it three times since.

The shower shrieks to life and Peter winces, hopping around naked (and more than a little cold) while it takes its sweet time heating up. It’d be nice if the horrible sound signified more than a sad trickle of water pressure, but unfortunately, the only thing it’s good for is waking up May after a night shift. At least she doesn’t have to set an alarm.

Except May isn’t puttering around in the kitchen by the time he finishes his shower and gets dressed, which is unusual. Though maybe not so unusual… given, well, everything. He knows she’s been having difficult shifts at work, which have been leaving her more exhausted than usual. Peter tries to be quiet while going through the morning routine, although he misses her presence.

Between her night shifts and Peter’s homework schedule, they only really get to talk to each other in the morning. He’s missing her distracting presence today especially, because he’s dreading going to school this morning. He just knows that Harry’s going to be annoyed that Peter didn’t respond to (or even read) his texts all weekend. And then that weird thing with Liz on Friday… He had the distinct impression ‘running away and saying they could talk later’ was not the lasting solution to the problem he wanted.

That, and this was the week that… well, this is just going to be a tough week.

It isn’t until the coffee is made (much stronger than Peter likes it, but not as strong as May does, if her good-natured ribbing is to be believed) and Peter is munching on some plain toast that he sees the repurposed coffee bag he’s been using as a lunch sack lately sitting in the fridge with a post-it note stuck haphazardly on the side.

She must be having a really rough time if she didn’t even plan on waking up to say good morning at all. Peter’s usual sandwich and apple are in the bag, though, so at least she had enough energy to pack him a lunch. And to leave a note that says ‘Laundry today! Your room is starting to STINK!’ with a smiley face scribbled below it.

Peter pauses by her door on his way out. He wants to poke his head in and at least do their ritual hug for ‘good luck’, but he can hear her snoring and doesn’t have the heart to wake her. Instead, he loads his backpack and pours his coffee into a thermos along with some ice and enough sugar to make it palatable. Then he heads out the door to begin the fifty-three minute commute to Midtown School of Science and Technology. 

* * *

Harry is waiting in ambush near Peter’s locker.

“Peter, my buddy, my pal, did your shitty old phone finally bite it?” His tone is light, but he can’t entirely hide the underlying hurt. Harry never can.

Peter sighs. The only way out of this particular conversation is through.

“Sorry I didn’t message you back,” he apologizes as he digs through his locker for the book they’re reading in English. They’re supposed to do a live reading today of some passage or other that Mr. Finkley finds particularly moving. Peter just hopes he doesn’t get called on. He didn’t get enough sleep to pretend to care about Holden Caulfield’s problems.

“Then are you mad at me for some reason?” Harry asks. He throws a dramatic hand across his forehead. “Did I insult you in some deeply hurtful way?”

He’s practically swooning into the bank of lockers, and Peter has to duck out of the way to avoid headbutting him when he withdraws victorious with a battered copy of _The Catcher in the Rye_ in hand.

“No, Harry. I was just… busy, okay? I’m sorry.” Peter hopes that’ll be the end of it, but Harry trails after him as he heads towards class. He sighs. They both know Harry’s first period is on the opposite end of the building.

Harry pouts, obviously not ready to drop the topic. “You were busy _all weekend_? Didn’t have a single spare minute to acknowledge your oldest friends’ messages?”

“I think Ned’s my oldest friend, actually. And I started hanging out with MJ for like a week before we did,” Peter teases. “We can talk later, okay? You’ve been late to Chem too many times already this semester.”

“You keep track of my tardies?” Harry holds a hand over his heart. “You _do_ care.”

“Of course I _care_ , Harry. Now go. I don’t want to hear you pouting about getting detention or having to do Saturday school or whatever the penalty is now.”

Flash walks by and snickers, because apparently telling your friends that you care is some sort of admission of weakness. Peter shakes his head, trying not to let it get to him. After Ben, he promised he’d never let his feelings for the people he loves go unsaid. Just in case. Flash’s parents probably never tell him they love him.

But then, neither does Harry’s dad.

At least Harry seems grateful to hear it from other people, and to say it in return. That puts him miles ahead of Flash in Peter and MJ’s definitive ranking of “obnoxiously rich kids” that attend Midtown High. MJ says they’ll eat Harry last, when the time comes.

Peter, thankfully, does not get called on to read yet another excerpt of an irate Holden Caulfield lamenting about the state of humanity. Instead, Mr. Finkley keeps _looking_ at Peter. He probably thinks Peter must identify with Holden’s loss of a beloved family member — and his subsequent directionless anger at the world. Peter might be able to relate, if he wasn’t so busy _actually_ trying to do Ben’s memory proud.

He does his best to shrug off the awkward scrutiny as he tries to subtly work ahead in his other classes. At least it cheers him up a bit to hear Flash read (with utmost sincerity) a passage raging about ‘all the goddamn phonies.’

Unlike Harry, Ned and MJ are obviously making an effort to take it easy on Peter this week. They crowd in on either side of him during lunch, making light conversation over his head while he does math homework to keep himself occupied.

The distraction from thinking about Ben is nice, but honestly, Peter needs every spare second of homework time he can squeeze in. The more time he spends doing his homework while he’s actually at school, the less time he has to dedicate to it at home in the evenings, and the more time he has available to help out Aunt May and go out and help people as Spider-Man. 

After Ben died, he’d briefly let his classwork slip. Saving people had felt like the only important thing — until he’d realized how much more stress his lowered grades were causing May. He’d cut back on patrols, and vowed not to let his duties as Spider-Man interfere with school again.

But then one night, a semi-crash involving a truck carrying some nasty pharmaceutical precursors resulted in a massive spill in a low-income neighborhood. The area was on his route as Spider-Man, and he might very well have been able to prevent it if he hadn’t been stuck at home finishing a stupid _proof_ that he’d procrastinated on like an idiot. 

So now he’s back to trying to juggle both. Any available free time is dedicated to homework and studying. Those scattered minutes at lunch or on the bus buy him a few extra minutes to go out in the evening and save people from burning buildings, or take down overly aggressive assholes in mascot suits.

“So, Peter,” Ned clears his throat and nudges his arm, leading Peter to suspect that Ned has been trying to get his attention for a few minutes. “I heard that Liz is looking for you.” The accompanying eyebrow waggle was entirely unnecessary, in Peter’s opinion.

“Ugh, I thought we were done talking about _her_ , like, a year ago,” MJ groans, then winces at the reminder of the date.

Peter had a massive crush on Liz during freshman and sophomore year. He pretty much carried a torch right up until Ben died. Then the infatuation had shriveled up under the weight of grief, and Peter decided he didn’t have time for crushes, anyway.

It had been a relief for MJ, who _hated_ the other girl. The feeling was very much mutual, if the icy chill that descended on a room whenever the two were forced to work together was any indication.

The herstory of Liz and MJ was long and complicated. According to legend, they’d been best friends right up until the summer after second grade. But then, at a pool party, one had called the other a ‘poopy butt-head.’ Hair had been pulled, hands had been thrown, eyes blackened.

They’d been enemies ever since.

When they’d gotten their letters of acceptance from Midtown Tech, they’d both been glad to finally be free of the other, then horrified to learn the other was going to attend. Neither one had been willing back out and let the other win, so here they were — years later, in a different school district, and still at each other’s throats.

“Yeah, she said she wanted to talk about something after school on Friday, but I had to get home, so,” Peter shrugs, frowning as he catches an arithmetic error in his homework. He grabs his eraser, determined to correct it before he forgets.

MJ cackles and Ned gapes.

“You brushed _Liz_ off?” Ned asks, aghast.

“You brushed Liz off!” MJ practically howls with laughter.

“Oh,” Peter blinks. “I guess I did.” 

He takes a bite of his coffee-ground dusted apple and gets back to work.

* * *

Peter’s free period is not nearly as productive as lunch, but then it never is. Peter doesn’t have lunch with Harry, after all.

Harry’s usually late, and Peter takes the precious extra minutes of productivity to get through a few stoichiometry problems. The assignment isn’t due until next Monday, but Peter doesn’t think he’ll be able to get himself to focus on them at all later in the week, and especially not over the weekend.

“So,” Harry whispers loudly as he crashes into the chair next Peter’s. The librarian gives them a sharp look, and he shoots her a charming grin. “Did you even read my texts at all, or…”

“No,” Peter admits and pushes the chemistry book aside. Harry needs his full attention, and Peter owes it to him for being a shitty friend about text-etiquette.

“At least you’re honest,” Harry smiles affectionately. “I was asking if you wanted to come over for a sleepover on Friday.”

Harry is the absolute worst with dates. It’s an indisputable fact, now. He’d been neck and neck with Ned, but this was all the proof Peter needed to set him on the first place pedestal.

“Uhm, I don’t know. Friday isn’t… isn’t great for me,” Peter says, reluctant to say no straight to Harry’s hopeful face. If he hints at it, maybe Harry will remember and rescind the invitation on his own. “May might have plans, you know…”

“God, Pete,” Harry laughs, and Peter loses all hope for subtlety. “What are you, twelve? Making plans with your aunt, jeez. I’m sure she’d be happy for you to have your own life.”

“I’ll check,” Peter huffs. He doesn’t like it when Harry talks like that, like spending time with his aunt is something Peter should dread doing. Like he’s a baby for loving his only remaining family-member.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Harry presses, “we can hang out, have pizza, watch those scary movies your aunt won’t let us when we’re at your place —”

“It was 2 am, there was a lot of screaming, and you wouldn’t turn the volume down,” Peter interjects, feeling compelled to defend May’s honor. It’s not that she hates horror movies; she just isn’t a shitty neighbor.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry waves. “Well, my place doesn’t have grouchy neighbors with paper-thin walls, so my point stands.”

Peter rolls his eyes.

“Think about it? Ask her real nice when she’s in a good mood?” Harry says, using his best puppy-dog eyes. Peter has a hard time resisting, even if MJ says Harry looks like a total douche-bag when he makes that face.

“Sure, yeah, I’ll try,” Peter mumbles. He doesn’t like lying, but he doesn’t want to reject Harry outright or make him feel bad.

Maybe he can ask MJ or Ned to gently remind Harry. It might be awkward, since neither of them have any classes with him this semester. But Harry actually _does_ check his texts, so maybe it could work.

“You’re an absolute gem, Petey,” Harry simpers and bats his eyelashes, making Peter laugh and lightly shove him. The librarian clears her throat at them, and Peter blushes furiously, making Harry laugh uproariously until he gets them both kicked out.

Peter doesn’t get any homework done while they’re hiding from hall-monitors in the darkened (and supposedly locked) auditorium, but sneaking around whispering with Harry does make him feel a little bit lighter.

At least until he remembers that he’s going to have to find a way out of the sleepover. Which, in turn, reminds him that Friday, well — 

Friday is the anniversary of Ben’s death.

* * *

When Liz corners him after school this time, she does so quite thoroughly. And literally.

There’s no way he can leave without actually pushing her out of the way, and while Peter may have been a little rude when he’d practically run away last week, he’s not ‘shove a girl out of his path’ rude.

“Uh, hi Liz,” Peter says carefully. Maybe he can just… wall-crawl away without her noticing.

“Hi Peter,” she replies. She’s smiling, but her tone is strained. Her eyes are uncomfortably focused on his.

“What’s, uh, what’s up?” Peter fiddles with his backpack strap. He does not like the vibe she’s giving off; it’s making his Spidey-senses tingle uncomfortably. He sends out a wistful hope that MJ will show up and pull Liz away by her hair.

“You’re a real sweet guy,” she answers. Peter doesn’t know how to respond to that non sequitur, so he ends up just swallowing loudly and looking around to see if anyone else is in the hallway.

“Yeah, you are,” Liz continues as if he’d denied the compliment, which Peter thinks is really, really strange. It’s like she has a whole thing rehearsed, and he’s here ruining it with his dumb questions and his awkward silences. “You’re sweet and you’re smart, and you’ve gotten real cute, Peter Parker.” 

She’s looming even closer now, still talking in that weird, forced voice. When he’d had a crush on her, he’d liked that Liz was taller than him. Now Peter feels claustrophobic, caught between her body and the wall.

“Th-thanks?” He’s pretty sure everything she said was a compliment, but honestly it feels more like he’s being threatened.

She lets out a fake-giggle, which Peter hates. He had categorized all of her laughs when he’d had a crush on her and this matches up with precisely none of them. Why is she even making that sound?

Then she leans down and presses her lips against him and Peter freezes.

Mostly, because he somehow did not see it coming. It’s… maybe not the worst feeling, because at least Liz’s lips are soft and she smells nice, but he doesn’t really like it. She could have asked first.

He’s not sure what to do next. Will he hurt her feelings if he pushes her away? Or is it weird to let her keep kissing him if he’s about to turn her down? He’s still trying to figure it out when he hears MJ and Harry coming. He’s still too shocked to do anything but stand there, wide-eyed and rigid, as the two of them round the corner. At least they’ll be able to help him, he thinks, desperately.

They just stand there and gape. MJ looks furious, cheeks going red and mouth setting into a hard, flat line. For a second Peter thinks she’s going to save him and rip Liz off just like he’d fantasized about earlier. Instead, she turns on her heel and marches away. Harry stares for a fraction of a second longer, before his shoulders droop and he’s slinking off, too.

Peter’s not sure which is worse.

When Liz finally stops trying to move her lips against his, Peter ducks under her arm, evading her grab for him.

“Uhm,” he stutters as he backs away, “I’m really flattered, but um— ” He can’t find his words and it feels like he’s got asthma again and he’s got to catch up to MJ and Harry and tell them what really happened. “I don’t really think I want to do that again. Like, ever.”

He runs.

He ducks into the bathroom, splashing some water on his face as he lets what just happened sink in. It was… fine. It’s not a big deal. People kiss each other all the time. It was just awkward. Awkward and very, very unfortunate that MJ and Harry showed up at the worst possible time. He takes a few more breaths, gathering himself. Okay, it’ll be fine. He can fix this. 

They’re both gone by the time he emerges to look for them. He’ll text them when he’s on the train home. He doesn’t know what to say, and his hands are trembling. When he sits down and pulls out his phone, they’ve already started texting him.

**MJ: What the Actual Fuck?!  
** **MJ: Were you secretly laughing at me at lunch??  
** **MJ: Told me you’d brushed her off but just making plans to makeout?  
** **MJ: I wouldn’t have even been that mad if you didn’t lie about it!  
** **MJ: We were trying to be nice because it’s almost the anniversary and you turn around do this shit? I’m going to say it: you’re mourning in unhealthy ways  
** **MJ: Do better Parker FFS**

The last one makes him wince.

At least she’s already making excuses for him. He doesn’t think he can fix it over text, especially with the betrayal still fresh, but he knows it’ll be worse if he doesn’t say anything at all.

**Peter: I’m really sorry  
** **Peter: I’ll explain what happened tomorrow  
** **Peter: promise**

He doesn’t know if he wants to read what happened typed out like that, anyways.

Harry only sent a couple, and somehow it’s so, so much worse than MJ, even though she’s usually the one who knows just where to cut to _really_ hurt.

**Harry: guess i kno y u dont want 2 hang on fri  
** **Harry: have fun bro :)**

“Fuck,” Peter mumbles, earning a glare from a woman holding the hands of two toddlers. She’s on public transit, he thinks, looking away. That’s hardly the worst thing those kids are going to hear.

**Peter: It’s not like that, I swear  
** **Peter: I’m not hanging out with her on Friday, I promise  
** **Peter: I’m sorry, man. We’ll hang out soon**

He can’t exactly ask MJ to text Harry about what day Friday is, now. He’ll have to tell Harry himself. At least the crippling awkwardness of telling Harry why he didn’t just _say_ what he was doing on Friday will distract his friend from asking about the weird Liz thing. It’s… not a great bright side.

By the time he gets home, Peter just wants a hug and a nap. He shuffles through the door, weighing the pros and cons of getting his homework out of the way, versus just going to bed right now. He might be caught up enough on homework to justify a few hours of sleep before heading out on patrol…

May is sprawled out on the couch in a way he knows will make her back ache later, frowning at something on her ancient and overheating laptop. He greets her with a tired smile as he makes a bee-line for his room. She doesn’t look like she’s in a hugging mood.

“Hey kiddo. Going to do your laundry, I hope,” she calls as he passes.

Peter wants to groan. He wants to say ‘Later!’ but he can’t do that. Not now, and not this week especially. So instead, he forces a cheerful, “Of course!” Once he makes it to his room, he leans against the closed door, letting his head _thunk_ against the wood as his bookbag slides heavily to the floor. His shoes wind up on either side of the room, kicked off more violently than strictly necessary.

That’s it. That’s his one minute to pout.

With a sigh, he starts to attack the mountain of dirty clothes strewn across his floor. He tosses everything in the hamper, stripping off his (admittedly ripe) bedsheets. One more heavy sigh, and then he forces his face back into a pleasant expression as he opens his bedroom door. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t wake up with you this morning,” May says when he walks by to get to the washing machine (an olive green monstrosity that dates back from the Mid-Pleistocene, at least). “I was just so wiped.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Peter smiles, more genuinely this time. “Thanks for packing me lunch. How was the coffee?”

“A little weak.”

Peter does groan this time, a loud, exaggerated thing. It’s allowed — part of the lighthearted routine they’ve built up. May likes to tease him about being a robot child, threatening to take him to the doctor’s office if he doesn’t act like a teenager at least _some_ of the time.

He shoves the laundry in, carefully measures the detergent because the dinosaur of a washer is a finicky asshole, and winces at the scream it emits when he turns it on. “One day,” he calls over the squeal of the pipes as the washer fills, “I will make a satisfactory pot of coffee.”

“But it is not this day,” May jokes back, setting the laptop down. “Come here,” she pats the couch cushion next to her. “I haven’t seen you all day and I’ve got to head in early tonight.”

Peter gratefully flops down next to her, letting her pull him into a sort of side-hug and run her fingers soothingly through his hair. “Bad day?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says and doesn’t elaborate. She waits for a moment but doesn’t press.

“That’s rough, buddy.”

Peter loves that he doesn’t hear a hint of sarcasm in her voice. She just lets him feel, and doesn’t force him to justify himself to her. He nods, then nods off, coaxed to sleep by May’s nails against his scalp and her faintly floral scent.

* * *

He wakes up in the dark. May’s gone.

“Shit,” Peter mumbles, wiping the saliva off his cheek. “Shit, shit.” He hauls himself up, stumbling to his room to suit up for patrol.

So much for getting in an hour or two of homework… He’ll have to somehow make up for the lost time tomorrow. And that’s going to be tricky, since he’ll be kept busy putting out the fire Liz’s kiss set on his relationships with Harry and MJ. It’ll be fine. He’ll figure out what to say to them, do the damage control, and maybe he’ll luck out and he won’t get too much new homework tomorrow.

Peter puts the Spider-Man suit on inside out. He swears a little as he peels it off and pulls it back on correctly, then dives out the window.

“Do better, Parker,” he mumbles to himself, and sets off in the direction he hears screams.

  
  



	2. Spilt Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can’t have one of his explosions at Micro, not in front of the barista. It would call attention to them and they’d have to find a new place to meet, again. And he’ll never admit it, but Frank is starting to feel comfortable in this one. Also, he’s pretty sure he’d give the poor girl a panic attack, and he isn’t that kind of asshole.
> 
> Mostly.
> 
> He tries not to be that kind of asshole.
> 
> (Frank is confronted with evidence that he’s kind of an asshole.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to [WaterMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe) for cheering me on and beta reading.
> 
> I had a ton of fun writing Frank's point of view for this chapter.

On Mondays, Frank gets coffee with Micro.

The whole ritual is agonizing. Micro does his best imitation of a functional, normal human being. Frank keeps his grunting and snarling to minimum, trying not to make the barista too uncomfortable.

He’s not too successful today, given the way she keeps nervously looking over at them. Frank blames Micro for this, at least in part, because the other man is vibrating so hard he’s rattling the hippie shit in the windows. That’s unfortunate, as it’s usually his job to keep Frank calm in this herb-scented tea-slash-apothecary-slash-coffee shop. If Frank had a happy place, this would be its direct opposite, but Micro insists that it’s the best option. He isn’t entirely wrong. It’s quiet, low-traffic, and there’s always a seat open where Frank can watch all entry points.

If only it reeked less of roses and lavender.

Or, if that wasn’t possible, the obnoxious botanicals would do their job and calm his friend the fuck _down._

“What’s up, Micro?” Frank grumbles, his own leg bouncing furiously in sympathy. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the barista stirring extra lavender syrup into his ‘calming sencha latte.’ He’d tried to order his usual black coffee, but the barista (the same panicked, mousy looking young woman he sees every time he comes here) had suggested the tea concoction instead. Not one to be intentionally rude to service workers, Frank had grunted his acquiescence and has watched its creation with extreme diligence ever since.

She better not be trying to poison him.

“It’s David,” Micro corrects him mildly.

“Micro,” Frank replies, just because he likes the way _David_ wrinkles his nose when he does. “Why the hell are you so twitchy today? It’s making me twitchy, and that’s making the barista twitchy, and we could all use a little… less… twitching.”

“Yeah. Uh, yeah,” Micro nods. Which isn’t a damn answer, except then he goes digging around his battered messenger bag and hands Frank a thick file.

“Take, uh, take a look at that, will you?”

It’s an in-depth dossier of some corporate R&D Engineering asshole, fittingly named Kevin White. Frank isn’t shocked at the detail, although he’s slightly impressed that Micro even bothered. The man is shockingly bland. He pays his taxes on time, enjoys his steak medium-well, and volunteers as an assistant coach for a local school’s lego robotics club. There is nothing of interest about him at all, and Frank’s starting to wonder why Micro’s wasting his time with this — until he turns to the last section. He catches the first three sentences and abruptly shuts the folder. Just in time, too, because Small, Neurotic, and Mousy is almost at the table with their drinks.

Frank takes several deep breaths, letting them out slowly. He can’t have one of his explosions at Micro, not in front of the barista. It would call attention to them and they’d have to find a new place to meet, _again_. And he’ll never admit it, but Frank is starting to feel comfortable in this one. Also, he’s pretty sure he’d give the poor girl a panic attack, and he isn’t that kind of asshole.

Mostly.

He _tries_ not to be that kind of asshole.

Couldn’t Micro have given him some _warning_ about what he was giving to Frank? True, files from Micro were always at least somewhat disturbing. He only brought them to Frank if the person had done something that actually warranted Frank’s particular brand of justice. But _this—_

“Thank you,” Frank grunts, a little too forcefully, when his foaming mug of lavender-scented tea is set in front of him. It’s a welcome distraction. He tries to smile at the barista, but the tug of his lips feels wrong. He’s certain it’s more of an unhinged grimace than anything pleasant. The look on the girl’s face confirms his suspicions.

Fucking Micro.

Frank wants to shout at him, ask him what the _fuck_ he thinks he’s doing. He catches the barista’s eye. He takes another deep breath, and takes a sip of his tea.

He doesn’t spit it out, but it’s a near thing. The lavender is powerful, and he’s not sure how he feels about this ‘sencha tea’ business. A comment about how he’d go chew on a suburban garden if he wanted to taste this shit is on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows the remark, and the tea, down. Someone made this for him, after all. This was made specifically for him, by someone who thought, for whatever reason, that he would enjoy (or at least benefit in some way from) it.

Tentatively, he tries another small sip. It’s very slightly less offensive, now that he’s prepared for it.

Still wishes it was coffee, though.

It takes Frank a minute to realize that Micro is staring at him. Right. The file. 

“So I take it you’re not a big fan of Leo’s lego robotics coach, huh?”

Micro lets out a heavy breath through his nose, which Frank interprets as a humorless laugh. 

“I’m not sure if I’m more impressed that you haven’t already torn out of here to bludgeon someone to death, or that you actually remembered which of my kids is into lego robotics.”

“Yeah, well,” Frank shrugs, and takes another sip of the bafflingly foul-yet-intriguing tea. It’s a good way to keep from having to respond immediately.

Despite the fact that the Lieberman family has decided, for some inexplicable reason, to adopt Frank fully into their ranks, it’s still a sore point between Frank and Micro. Just because Sarah flirted with him that _one_ time. Usually it’s water under the bridge, an honest mistake made by a woman who thought she was a widow with a man who was overly invested in her family’s safety without explaining why. Micro needs to get over it, move on.

Or, it just might be that Frank still feels guilty. It’s so hard for him to tell what’s genuinely going through other peoples’ heads and what he’s just projecting on them.

“Figures at least one of them would be a total fuckin’ nerd,” Frank says at last, trying to dissipate the tension.

“Yeah,” Micro replies with a half smile. He’s tense, but of course he is; Frank would be tearing the world apart if he knew that sort of man had been anywhere near his kids. Hell, he’s all knotted up just knowing that sort of man was near someone _else’s_ kids. “Figures.”

“I’ll deal with it,” Frank grunts, trying to be reassuring.

“Thanks.”

They sit for a long time in not-quite comfortable silence. Frank is torn between contemplating how he’s going to rip Leo’s lego coach to pieces and contemplating why the hell he keeps drinking more of the tea latte. It’s like the oral equivalent of a train wreck. He just can’t look away.

By the time they’re leaving, Frank has lost his leg bouncing and nervous tics. Instead, he feels very focused on the task ahead of him.

“Thanks for the recommendation,” he tells the barista, giving her a hefty tip. “I feel much calmer now.”

* * *

Micro’s intel makes tracking the bastard down almost too easy. 

Frank follows him home from a business dinner, starting at a distance and slowly hemming him in. Kevin dodges and weaves, taking less efficient routes home as he tries to lose his tail. Frank expected as much, but he’s still irritated as they start to edge too close to Daredevil’s territory for comfort. Time to wrap this up.

They’re still a few blocks out from Hell’s Kitchen when Frank manages to corner Kevin in an alley. It’ll be most efficient to make this look like a mugging gone wrong; despite the oversaturation of masked heroes in New York City, very few of them waste their time with petty street crime.

Kevin realizes very quickly that he’s trapped. He fumbles his wallet out with shaking hands, tossing it to the ground between them.

“T-take it,” he whimpers.

“I think you know that’s not what I’m here for,” Frank informs him. His jacket mostly obscures the white skull, but it falls open as he takes another step. When Kevin catches a glimpse, all the blood drains from his face.

Frank smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “Not so fun when you’re the one cornered and helpless, is it?”

Kevin begs for mercy. That’s fine. Standard, even. Kevin offers him money.

Frank decides to do this one without the gun.

He starts with a hard blow to the ribs, to keep Kevin from screaming too loud. He’s just getting warmed up when he catches a glimpse of red out of the corner of his eye.

Fuck.

The shade is too bright to be Murdock. And if it were Murdock, Frank wouldn’t have seen him coming.

Spider-Man, then.

Little Red is a persistent thorn in Frank’s side. Despite the enhanced strength and incredible reflexes, the masked vigilante can’t fight worth a damn, a failing that Frank takes ruthless advantage of. He would have killed the annoying fucker ages ago, but that crosses a line that even he isn’t quite ready to cross. Instead, Frank makes a point to be brutal when beating the punk down, in the hopes that he’ll stop sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.

But no matter how hard Frank hits, no matter how broken and beaten he leaves the vigilante, the little cockroach always, _always_ pops back up.

“Not in the mood for your shit tonight,” Frank grunts.

Kevin is on the ground looking up at him, eyes nearly swollen shut already. It’s a pathetic sight, but not even close to retribution for what he’s done. Frank regrets his decision not to just shoot the fucker, and regretting even more that he’ll have to kill him before he suffers like he deserves. It costs him a precious few seconds to unholster his gun and aim, and by the time he has it levelled at the perv’s head it’s already being yanked from his grip.

Obnoxious.

Expected, but obnoxious.

“Don’t you have something better to do than annoy me, Spider-Man?” Frank sneers. The red-and-blue bane of his existence is adhered to the side of the brick wall, well out of Frank’s reach. The gun dangles in a decidedly unsafe way from Spider-Man’s fingers, as if he’s disgusted to even touch the thing.

“Don’t you have better things to do than beat salarymen to death in dark alleys?”

Which —

“He’s not a salaryman,” Frank snorts. “His ‘bonuses’ are more than his employees make in a year.”

It’s not the point, but it grinds Frank’s gears to see people painted as the victims when they’re clearly _not_.

“Shitty manager then, sure,” Spider-Man shrugs, shifting around for an opening to dart in and rescue the fucker. “But last I checked, that’s not a capital crime. Even if we are going full ‘eat the rich,’ I’m pretty sure there are better, and might I say more tasteful, targets —”

“Cut the shit,” Frank spits. “This living skid-mark,” he grabs Kevin by the hair and shakes, viciously, “is a monster. He hurts people.”

“Whatever you think he did, I can help you make sure he pays the consequences, but—”

Frank laughs. Spider-Man lets out a little _hurt_ noise, but valiantly, annoyingly, continues.

“ —but, you don’t get to play judge, jury and executioner!”

Frank laughs even harder. He can’t help it. Frank gave up playing ‘judge’ and ‘jury’ a long time ago, when he realized his ability to make those sorts of calls was well and truly fucked.

It’s a drop in his guard. Spider-Man uses the pause to try to shoot a web, but Frank knows his tells and manages, barely, to dodge. Kevin, the optimist, is halfway down the alley on his hands and knees when Frank grabs his ankle and drags him back. He positions himself so Spider-Man can’t web him up without getting the bastard, too.

They’re in something of a stand-off until the other vigilante launches himself at Frank, realizing that he won’t be able to rely on his webs. In terms of Kevin’s continued survival it’s not a bad idea. Frank had just been thinking about just killing the guy first, and then figuring out his escape from the web-shooting pain in his ass.

In terms of his own well being, well. It’s not the best decision Spider-Man’s made about his personal safety. At least Frank assumes so. Now that he thinks back he’s never seen Little Red make what he’d call a _good_ decision in that regard.

Frank is man enough to admit that Spider-Man is stronger, more flexible, and has better reflexes than he does. But he barely knows how to throw a punch, and, worse, he seems to spend just as much effort trying _not_ to hurt Frank as he does trying to take him down. Frank has never been one to turn down an advantage. The fight is turning quickly in his favor, but while he’s thrashing the stubborn asshole, Kevin is crawling away. Again. Frank tries hitting harder, but the annoying thing about Spider-Man is that hitting him feels a lot like hitting a brick wall. He does take damage, but short of going for fatal injuries, Frank isn’t going to be able to put him down fast enough to prevent Kevin from escaping.

“You wanna know what that bastard did?” Frank pants.

Spider-Man stops trying to pull his hair out for just a moment.

“See, he’s a _real_ stand up guy, our Kevin. Volunteers, ya know, as a coach for kids. Finds the ones who feel real lonely, gives ‘em a person they feel like they can confide in, a friend you know? Makes ‘em feel real special. Then he gets them alone, like parents always say not to be, corners them so they can’t run away, and then...well...am I painting a clear enough picture for you Little Red?”

He can tell he’s gone far enough when Spider-Man starts loosening his hold.

“But you’re fine with that, aren’t you?” Frank drives the point home, “I mean, that’s the kind of guy you’re out here protecting, isn’t it?”

“I-” Spider-Man’s voice cracks. “That’s— I’m not...”

Spider-Man’s chest catches on a breath. Then he turns on his toes and _flees_.

It’s so unexpected that Frank can only gape, watching as his form shudders in a very familiar way even as his webs catch and propel him away.

Was he just— did he just make Spider-Man _cry?_

Overly idealistic, small-statured, cracking voice Spider-Man.

Oh fuck, Frank thinks.

Spider-Man is a kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't yet read [WaterMe's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe) delightful Clint/Peter Enemies to Pets to Lovers fic [Frisky Business](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24478747/chapters/59083003) you really, really should.


	3. No Steps Forward, Two Steps Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She is going to pay for this,” MJ says finally.
> 
> Peter sees Liz’s life flash before his eyes.
> 
> (Peter tries to put out some interpersonal relationship fires, but more crop up)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mega thanks to [WaterMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe) for cheering me on and then betaing this chapter.

Peter almost cried in front of The Punisher.

No scratch that, Peter _did_ cry in front of him. He’d managed to hold in the sobs until he’d webbed himself away, but the first tears had eeked their way out of the corners of his eyes while he was still standing in full view of Frank ‘I Get to Murder People Because I’ve Decided I Have the Moral High Ground’ Castle.

Sure, the mask theoretically would have hidden it, but The Punisher seems like the guy to have a sixth-sense about that sort of thing. Peter’s weeping probably _fed_ him somehow. Maybe that was why he was so mean; his only sustenance was the tears of the guilty. 

Or something like that.

He felt sick to his stomach—he’d just left that man to _die_. All because he couldn’t hold it together. It made sense. He _knew_ The Punisher only went after really bad scumbags. He’d started to see red himself when the vigilante started to explain. Peter had felt gross just being cornered and kissed by a pretty girl; the idea of a trusted adult—

He’s yanked from his thoughts by a tortured screech of tires, and swings out to save a one-eared mutt from traffic. He lets it chew on him a little longer and a little harder than he ordinarily might. Peter’s new hobby is identifying dog breeds, but other than ‘medium sized’ he can’t get a read on this one. Maybe it’s because his vision keeps blurring while he inspects it. Other than the arm-chewing habit, she’s pretty sweet. Lots of tail wagging, no growling. No tags, either, and it doesn’t look like anyone’s been feeding her. He drops her off (along with a make-shift water dish) on the balcony of a woman who lost her old rescue dog several weeks ago. She’s been crying a lot. He hopes they find love and healing together. Or, if it’s not love at first bite, that she knows a good no-kill rescue she can bring the mutt to.

Peter spends the rest of the night throwing himself into being a Friendly, Neighborhood Spider-Man. He can’t think about Frank Castle and his victim. Was the guy really the _victim?_ Surely that title rested with the kids he’d hurt bad enough to get The Punisher coming after him. Ugh. This is why Peter focuses on helping people, not doling out punishment. 

By the time he gets home and flops into bed, he’s exhausted and shaking. He stares at the ceiling for what feels like hours, and when he finally dozes off he has dreams about shadowy figures cornering him in the hallway near his locker, grabbing him, taunting at him. The entire time, The Punisher laughs, saying he’s getting what he deserves. 

He wakes up an hour before his alarm, and lays in bed regretting everything for an hour and five minutes.

* * *

May’s still asleep by the time Peter leaves. Today, it’s a relief. She would know exactly what to say to make him spill his guts. Maybe not the excruciating details, but at least his feelings about them. It would make him feel better in the end, but he has no desire to have a breakdown on the subway or show up to school with red, puffy eyes.

It’s bad enough that The Punisher knows he’s a crybaby; he doesn’t need the entire school knowing, too.

* * *

One of the benefits of being Spider-Man is that it really puts his daytime problems into perspective. The Liz kiss feels like no big deal after the whole ‘ _Punisher kicked my ass again, except this time he did it with words (and words aren’t his strong suit)’_ debacle.

The downside is that no one else benefits from this increased wisdom. Harry and MJ are still going to be upset, and while the thought of talking to them doesn’t feel quite as daunting as it did when Peter was on the subway home yesterday, trying to figure out what to say is still exhausting.

Even more exhausting is the realization that he underestimated the power and speed of gossip in a high school. The moment he walks in, it feels like everyone is sneaking glances at him. Some are outright staring. With his enhanced senses he can _hear_ them when they whisper to each other behind their hands. Usually this allays his paranoia, but today they really _are_ talking about him.

They’re all sorts of abuzz:

“ — _would he turn down_ Liz? _He’s never going to get anyone better_ —”

“ _—why was she even—” “ —with_ Parker?” 

“ _Well, you_ know _she has a… complicated… home life. Low self-esteem, you know._ ”

“ _I heard he said yes, and then she came to her good senses._ ”

“ _She_ had _to have, you know there’s no way she would—”_

Peter has to fight the urge to cover his ears as he makes his way through the gauntlet.

At least MJ and Harry will know that it’s not what they thought, whether they think the future lack of kisses are his decision or hers. 

It’s not like he’s going to date her in _secret._

“ _Well, I heard they’re actually dating in secret. She gets the best of both worlds. Stay the queen bee, and have the cute dweeb on the side._ ”

Yeesh. These people need to lay off the soap operas and porn.

MJ, Ned, and Harry are all hovering near his locker.

“Hey,” he greets, voice rough. It has absolutely nothing to do with hearing people talking about him like that. Nothing at all.

They all talk at once: “Hey—” “-the _hell,_ Parker? Wh—” “What’s the story with Liz?” 

“Uhm,” Peter blinks. “Can we talk later? Like, kind of in private?”

“You have some _explaining_ to do, Parker,” MJ glowers. His gut sinks, and he just feels so _tired._

He’d hoped she would be at least somewhat appeased by the rumor that Peter crashed and burned where Liz was concerned. Or maybe the ‘secret boytoy’ rumor reignited her suspicions.

“Yeah, it’s just there’s a lot of people around here, so can we talk during lunch?”

“We don’t have lunch together, Peter,” Harry points out, fixing Peter with a stare.

“Free period, like always,” Peter pleads.

“Okay, but like,” Ned leans forward, “I want _all_ of the details. Since I didn’t get to see it firsthand like these two lucky jerks.”

Peter sighs, and attempts a watery smile.

Said lucky jerks do not look particularly pleased, but at least they’re placated for now.

All Peter has to do is get his jumbled thoughts together in enough to explain what happened in a way that saves their friendship.

Easy peasy. 

Peter’s pretty sure he’s fucked. 

Resigning himself to a friendless life, followed by a solitary death alone and scared, he ambles to first period English. Hopefully Finkley doesn’t ask Peter to read today. Maybe he’ll say he’s got laryngitis to get out of it. His throat feels scratchy enough for it to be true.

True to form, Flash can’t resist coming over to Peter’s desk before class starts and harassing him. Peter wonders idly if it’s some sort of biological imperative for the other boy. Perhaps Flash goes into some sort of torpor during long holidays, conserving whatever dark energy he gets from irritating Peter, fat and happy from the feeding frenzy of Finals Week. 

Damn, he should have done that for his Biology project last year.

“I heard Liz asked you out and you spazzed out and ran away,” Flash looks exceptionally pleased with himself. As if Peter hasn’t been hearing worse versions of this since he walked in the building. As if he didn’t have The Actual Fucking Punisher accusing him of defending sex offenders last night.

It’s just so tame. Pathetic, really. He shouldn’t rise to the bait; Uncle Ben would want him to be the better man in this situation, and most of Peter agrees. But he couldn’t say anything last night, and he _can_ say something right now, and then his mouth opens and the words just come out— 

“Well, I heard your parents don’t love you.”

Flash goes pale and then flushes. It’s a sore point for him. Everyone _knows_ it’s a sore point that his parents never show up for any school functions, that never seem interested in his accomplishments.

“At least I _have_ parents,” he shoots back, voice wavering with emotion.

“Is it better to have loved and lost,” Peter ponders philosophically, “than to have never been loved at all?”

Flash looks like he wants to hit him. Or cry. Too bad he can’t do either, because Mr. Finkley strolls into the room and tells everyone to sit down, strap themselves in, and prepare their bodies for another exciting reading of Holden Caulfield’s existential angst.

* * *

Peter manages to intercept MJ and Ned before they get to the lunch room. They don’t know about Harry and Peter’s secret entrance to the auditorium, but Peter deems the situation sufficiently dire to show them. 

Still, it feels a little weird to be letting them into such a secret spot. Vulnerable. He feels their gazes keenly on the back of his neck as he leads the way.

Once they’re settled, he’s out of excuses. He’d gone back and forth in his head on what exactly to tell them. He trusts MJ to keep the secret, but he’s only about 64% on Ned. Ned would never sell him out—on purpose. He just… gets excited. But this whole thing escalated because they don’t trust him to be honest with them. And—his gut twists with guilt—they’re right. He’s lying to _everyone,_ all the time.

The least he can do is be honest about this.

It’s easier than he thought it would be. By the end, Ned, who had been excited for the juicy details on Peter’s first kiss, looks kind of confused. MJ is the kind of silent that always makes Peter nervous.

“But wasn’t it nice?” he asks, and gets cuffed on the back of the head by MJ.

“I mean, she didn’t have bad breath or anything,” Peter hedges. “But I wasn’t expecting it and then she just sort of mashed her face against me which wasn’t super nice?”

“Man, that sucks,” Ned sighs. “You get your first kiss with _Liz_ and it isn’t even enjoyable.” 

“She is going to pay for this,” MJ says finally.

Peter sees Liz’s life flash before his eyes.

“It wasn’t that big of a deal,” he holds his hands out, as if he can hold her back with the gesture alone. “I just wanted to let you know that I wasn’t asking for it, I didn’t really like it, and I was never ever trying to have a secret relationship with your enemy behind your back. I’d never do that.”

MJ sighs heavily. “Alright. But if I find out she was messing with you just to try to ‘steal’ you from me…”

“Wow,” Ned snorts. “Egotistical much?”

And just like that, Peter is back in MJ’s good graces and Ned takes his spot on her shit list.

* * *

Afterwards, he feels lighter; the tightness in his chest has eased, at least a bit. He tries to concentrate on the way MJ smiled at him, tries not to let Frank Castle sneering at him take up the newly freed real-estate in his brain.

It went okay with Ned and MJ, and he’s not as worried about talking to Harry, now. Maybe everything’s going to be okay.

His phone buzzes.

He’s in class so he can’t check it, but the only person who would text him during school like this is Aunt May, so he knows he needs to check it as soon as he can. He hopes it isn’t that the shower broke (again). Or that the ancient water heater the landlord refuses to replace has (finally) given up the ghost, and the new ultra-budget replacement will take (at least) three weeks to arrive.

It buzzes again, and he starts feeling a little worried. By the third time it goes off he’s ready to climb out his skin from the anxiety. He hopes nothing happened to her. Nothing happened to her, right? They’d call him into the office if something really bad happened. But there’s a big space between ‘okay’ and ‘called into the office to be informed he’s an orphan again’ and a lot of that acreage is not good news.

As soon as the bell rings to signal the end of class, Peter runs out into the hallway and checks his phone.

It’s May, and as he opens them he feels a wave of relief, followed by a sharp twist of guilt.

The first text is a picture of the open washing machine, with Peter’s laundry wadded up and wet inside. The accompanying message reads, “Forget something?”

The next is of the counter, grounds scattered across it and spots of coffee dried onto the surface. “This better not stain!”

The final message is only text, and it’s long. Really long. May’s pissed, and Peter’s stomach drops as he reads it. Highlights include that he’s not a kid anymore and he should be able to clean up after himself; that she’s been waiting for him to get his act together but it wasn’t happening and she’s not happy to have to be telling him this; that she’s frustrated, and disappointed in him.

Peter wants to apologize immediately, but he’s not entirely sure what to say. A trite ‘I’m sorry, I’ll clean up when I get home!’ doesn’t seem sufficient.

She’ll understand that he’s in school and can’t formulate an adequate response. Hopefully.

He doesn’t have time to concentrate on solving that problem, because he’s still got to deal with Harry.

* * *

It doesn’t go exactly according to plan.

They can’t get into the auditorium because there’s a throng of teachers lurking in that hallway. They’re angrily gossiping about how the School Board is overstepping its bounds and trying to micromanage curriculum.

Instead, Peter finds a conveniently ajar window into the courtyard that, for some stupid liability reason, is always closed off. They can cram themselves through. Harry struggles a little bit, landing heavily on the gravel just below, so Peter makes a show of it being difficult himself. Harry is used to being the more athletic one of them, and he always seems hurt when Peter outperforms him. He never says anything about it, which honestly makes Peter feel even worse, and go even further out of his way to make sure it doesn’t happen often.

They crawl to a spot far from any open windows so no one will hear them, tucked out of sight of bored, grumpy teachers looking to hand out disciplinary actions. Peter’s Spidey-sense is so useful in these situations; if only he couldn’t clearly picture Uncle Ben shaking his head disapprovingly every time.

“So, you’re _not_ going out with Liz?” Harry asks.

“No, I am not,” Peter mumbles, pulling his knees in towards his chest.

“Didn’t you have, like a mega-crush on her last year?”

“Yeah, but not for a while,” Peter admits.

“So, uh, we can do Friday night then?” Harry asks. He’s really very close, but then there isn’t a ton of room in their little nook.

“No,” Peter shakes his head. He’s prepared to tell Harry that he and May are going to do something, but then he realizes that May’s pretty pissed at him and maybe she _won’t_ , and…

He doesn’t notice until the first tear hits folded arms.“Pete? You okay?” Harry presses even closer, leaning in.

“No, yes, I just,” Peter takes a deep breath, mentally erasing the ‘one’ he’d optimistically put on his internal ‘Days Since Peter Parker Has Cried In Public’ tally board. “Friday, it’s Ben’s—”

“Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry I forgot,” Harry slides an arm around Peter’s shoulders and pulls him in close.

“But I think Aunt May is mad at me, so maybe she won’t me around, because, because…” Peter trails off. He can’t tell Harry that his uncle’s death is his fault. It’s too close to admitting he’s Spider-Man, and he can’t do that. He just can’t.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, pressing Peter closer to his chest. “I’m sorry, that really sucks.”

Peter closes his eyes to try to hold back the tears. He knows Harry doesn’t like crying; Norman doesn’t tolerate that sort of thing, and so overt displays of pain or discomfort can make Harry uncomfortable. At least for once he isn’t pulling away.

“I’m sure she’ll want you around. But if she doesn’t, you can spend it with me?” Harry sounds a little too hopeful about that last part, but Peter can’t bring himself to be upset about it.

“Thanks,” Peter says, valiantly wiping at the wet tracks on his cheeks.

“No problem,” Harry smiles lightly. He’s looking a little pink, and Peter’s warm where they’re squeezed up together. Harry burns easily, they should probably… “Let’s get back in before we end up late. There’s only so many times I can sweet talk Ms. Mahama out of giving me detention.”

“Harry!” Peter laughs, but scrambles to his feet quickly. They crawl back in the way they came out, with Peter giving Harry a boost up to the window and Harry ‘pulling’ Peter back through from the other side.

Peter hopes making up with May will be as easy. 

* * *

Peter makes a beeline for the kitchen as soon as he gets home. May is sitting at the small table, forehead resting on her palm, listlessly eating sliced apples with peanut butter. She doesn’t offer any to Peter, and he isn’t about to ask.

His forgotten laundry is sitting in a miserable, wet wad in a basket next to the washer. He goes to stick it in the dryer, but May stops him.

“Not right now, Peter, I’ve got a headache.”

That’s fair; like all their appliances, the dryer is loud. And it has a singularly terrible, baffling long ‘end of cycle’ alarm that sometimes goes off even during the middle of running. No matter how many times Peter and Ben tried to find a way to turn it off, they never could.

“Besides,” she continues, chewing slowly. “It’s not like another few hours is going to hurt it at this point.”

Peter flinches, but nods and grabs a rag to wipe down the counters. May hadn’t cleaned them up after sending him the picture, and Peter could admit they looked pretty gross. 

“Just leave it,” May snaps before he can spray the cleaner. “Go do whatever it was that you were planning on doing before.”

“Just homework,” Peter replies, hurt. He’s not used to May acting like this. Normally if there’s a problem she’ll tell him to fix it, he does, and everything is fine again. Being forgetful about chores doesn’t seem like a bad enough offense to warrant this.

As he retreats to his room, he wonders if it’s because of the upcoming anniversary. May always reassured Peter that she didn’t blame him for what happened but maybe, somehow, some tiny part of her knows that it was his fault. He would deserve it if she did.

Feeling hungry and a bit queasy, Peter finally takes his backpack off in his room and digs out his schoolwork. He leaves the door open in case May wants to check that he’s actually doing what he said he was going to. 

Or, maybe, to come in and tell him he was forgiven and that everything would be okay. 

She doesn’t even say goodbye before she leaves, and the slam of the front door hurts, somewhere deep in the pit of Peter’s stomach.

Peter creeps out of his room, feeling like he’s breaking some rule even though May’s gone now. He puts his laundry in the dryer and wipes down the counters. Then he loads the dishwasher and runs it, handwashing, drying and carefully putting away the few items that won’t fit. The stovetop is starting to get gross so he scrubs that down, then he notices the cupboard doors are looking less than pristine and starts working on those.

He’s in the middle of sweeping when the dryer alarm blares, startling him enough that he jumps and ends up stuck on the ceiling for a moment before he can calm himself enough to drop back down.

It’s starting to get dark outside; he should already be out doing Spider-Man business. He grabs his laundry out of the dryer to prevent a repeat of yesterday’s mistake and haphazardly shoves it into his dresser drawers before changing into the suit.

The mask _still_ smells a bit like dog-slobber, and he feels a bit light-headed as he flings himself out the window.

At least as Spider-Man he can do right by _someone_.

Later, when his eyes are sliding shut to a symphony of screams echoing oddly through the warehouse, Peter wishes he’d stopped May for a good luck hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [WaterMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe) has been a very busy lady this week! In addition to betaing this thing, she also put out not one, but TWO fics in her [SpideyPool Holiday Special](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740493) series for Canada Day and the Fourth of July. They're hilarious, emotional, and very kinky. Check the tags (as always) and then check them out!


	4. Dog-Eared Notes, Puppy-Eyed Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It isn’t until he’s home, pouring Max’s obnoxiously overpriced grain-free dog food into his bowl (metal, because he read somewhere that plastic could harbor bacteria and lead to life-threatening chin acne), that Frank realizes he has no idea how to find Spider-Man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [WaterMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe) for Beta Reading and cheering on my baby, as well as your support for giving Frank a bunch of dog related stationery.
> 
> Also: [This Art](https://crazytom666.tumblr.com/post/163061489017) is what inspired this entire ride and is also extremely relevant to this chapter.

Frank shows up to work in a foul mood, even by his own standards

Kevin White got away.

It’s not the first time he’s been interrupted and lost his target. It’s nothing he can’t fix; he’ll deal with it tonight. He’s not looking forward to explaining the delay to Micro, especially since Leo has her lego robotics club this evening, but somehow Frank doesn’t think Kevin will be in any state to show up. 

The thing that’s got him scowling as he hangs pale grey wallpaper covered in a rainbow of pastel elephants holding balloons in their trunks is not Kevin _._ And it’s not because of Kevin that he’s even more irritated than usual by the subpar consistency of the hypoallergenic, eco-friendly paste the expecting parents insisted on _._

Spider-Man is a kid.

He doesn’t _know_ that for a fact, but after last night it seems likely. After last night, every crack of Spider-Man’s voice is like a whip through Frank’s memory. His awkward proportions no longer seem like the result of his freakish powers, but rather the natural ungainliness of a still-growing body. His (utter lack of) combat skills— 

“Fuck!” Frank hisses at the massive gob of paste that oozes along the seam of the wallpaper. Goddamn hypoallergenic, eco-friendly paste with its shitty, shitty consistency.

Usually, Frank finds the job soothing. Meditative. 

Even doing nurseries is relaxing, although they tend to send him spiralling into bittersweet nostalgia. Maria’d had a ferocious nesting instinct and Frank remembers doing the wallpaper for Lisa’s nursery, then having to tear it back down in the middle of the night when Maria found a better pattern. There hadn’t been any real rush, but Maria had been insistent, and Frank would’ve done anything to please her. He’d grumbled at the time, but he’d secretly enjoyed it. 

And she’d been right; the second wallpaper was much better.

He’d had to reassure her of that several times, when she started second guessing herself and wanted Frank to redo it in the first pattern.

Today, he can’t focus on anything except Spider-Man. Did his family obsess over his nursery? How long ago was it that they last told him a story and tucked him to sleep in it? A decade? A little more? _Less_?

He curses again. There isn’t a bubble or gob of glue in sight, every balloon-wielding elephant is in perfect alignment, but everything feels off-kilter and _wrong_.

Frank Castle does not beat kids half to death. He just _doesn’t._

He doesn’t even know for certain if Spider-Man is actually a teen or if his imagination and anger are running away with him. He needs to find out the truth.

If Spider-Man is a kid, well. Frank has a lot of atoning to do.

And if he’s not? If he’s not, then Frank might be tempted to kill him just for the headache the whole debacle is giving him.

Kevin White can fucking wait. Frank needs to get on top of this Spider-Man situation before he can trust himself to do anything else. Feeling slightly more settled, he arms himself with paste and wallpaper and attacks the bare walls.

* * *

It isn’t until he’s home, pouring Max’s obnoxiously overpriced grain-free dog food into his bowl (metal, because he read somewhere that plastic could harbor bacteria and lead to life-threatening chin acne), that Frank realizes he has no idea how to find Spider-Man.

The kid ( _maybe_ kid) has always been the one to find Frank. While he’s not above tracking someone down to beat on until Spider-Man shows up, he’d prefer a less antagonistic approach for once. Some research is necessary.

Curtis (from his military days—they go way back) seems to think Frank’s incapable of using the internet. Contrary to those assertions, Frank is perfectly capable of googling shit. The fact that the other man stands by this belief in Frank’s technological incompetence despite their regular email correspondence irritates Frank to no end. Probably why Curtis does it.

Jackass.

Frank needs to send him another email soon.

He finds the single functional pen in his apartment and writes it down on one of the dog-shaped notepads the Lieberman kids gave him last Christmas. Then he turns on his computer and goes to make a sandwich. It’s not that the machine takes that long to boot up; it’s really very fast. Micro picked it out for him, of course it’s good. But the ancient PC he and Maria had when they first got married took forever, and he’s in the habit of giving it some time to warm up. Micro reminds him that it isn’t necessary every time he catches him at it, but Frank still does it.

He’s pretty sure it helps.

Roast beef sandwich in hand, he settles down with a different dog-notepad. This one, Leo insists, looks like Max. Frank disagrees, but he would never, ever tell Leo that to her face. She put so much thought into its selection, so he makes a point to use it regularly. Anyway. Research notes are research notes, no matter what kind of dog you write them on.

Searching “Spider-Man Sightings, New York” gets him a very helpful site, conveniently called Spidey-Spotting. It has pictures dating back to nearly a year ago, complete with days, locations, and times. It’s perfect. He makes a note on a chihuahua to ask Micro to wipe it from internet history as quickly as possible.

The more recent stuff is going to be the most useful, but he finds himself curious about the oldest pictures.

There’s… a _lot._

By the time he gets to the second page of a shorter, slimmer looking Spider-Man carrying groceries for old ladies, posing for selfies with tourists, and jumping rope with little girls in pigtails, he has to put his pen down, or else he’ll be reduced to zero working pens.

How could he have not seen it? Spider-Man’s youth is so obvious it’s painful.

Except, well. Confirmation bias or whatever the fuck it was. Now that Frank thinks Spider-Man might be a kid, everything seemed to scream the fact at him.

A day ago, this kind of feel-good hearts-and-minds bullshit would have left him irritated. Disgusted, really. It’s the same visceral reaction he has to videos of cops dancing on street corners, or to conflict-profiteering politicians putting out ‘support our troops’ ads from their cushy offices during election season. If he had seen this a day ago, he probably would have been tempted to track Spider-Man down and beat the snot out of him for it.

Hell, if he’s wrong, and Spider-Man is just a weird, squirrely adult, then he’ll feel that way again.

Frank crams half his sandwich into his mouth and clicks to the most recent sightings. That’s the information he needs, after all. No use working himself over pictures from a year ago when he doesn’t know what they really mean yet.

So-called ‘Spidey-spottings’, it turns out, have changed in timing, frequency and location over his period of activity. That’s no surprise, but the pattern makes Frank a little sick.

At the beginning, Spider-Man was active starting around 3:30pm, then he disappeared for a couple hours in the evening, and reappeared until three or four in the morning. He was seen a lot more on the weekends. A _lot_ more. But after a few months, the sightings decreased. He started his patrols later, scurried back to his spider hole earlier. 

It was like he had responsibilities that were catching up with him. Responsibilities like homework. 

As an example. 

In the summer, Spider-Man became more active again, only to drastically reduce his active hours in late August. The kid is practically broadcasting that he’s a schoolboy to the world, but somehow there isn’t any speculation that he is one. Yet.

Jesus fuck. Frank needs to have a talk with the kid’s parents about this.

Unfortunately, there’s no indication of a ‘Spider signal,’ or reliable ways to bait him out. Some comments indicate that he appreciates gifts of food once he's already out and about, but it doesn't seem to work as a lure. There is, at least, a several-block area where he’s seen most frequently, especially between the hours of eight and midnight.

It’s a start.

Now to figure out how to approach him.

* * *

Frank’s townhouse has a very nice guest room. It has yellow and blue walls, and a very floral duvet cover that Sarah picked out. The colors wouldn’t have been his first (or second… or third) choice, but he quickly realized that if he didn’t go with it, he’d have to let Leo and Zach choose. Since he didn’t want a fully dog-themed guest room, he accepted the oversized yellow and blue rose covered bedding with his most charming smile. Anyway, it was easier than picking something out himself.

The roses are obscured right now by the contents of his armory.

Frank isn’t about to go out as The Punisher unarmed. That would be asking for trouble. Besides, there’s a decent chance that Spider-Man won’t react well to his presence, and Frank might have to do a little threatening to get the kid to listen.

He settles on a couple of easily concealed knives, because those are always useful even if he doesn’t get into a fight, and two handguns. They’re easily enough to stash in his jacket, along with plenty of ammo. Just in case.

* * *

Frank feels like a massive asshole wandering around in full Punisher gear without an actual target in mind. How Murdock can stand to do this in that ridiculous get up of his is anyones’ guess. At least with his jacket zipped up he’s mostly indistinguishable from the regular civilians about their business. He doesn’t want to call too much attention to himself, and he’s going to have to be light on his feet in order to catch Spider-Man.

Several hours in, he feels like an utter idiot. He doesn’t have enhanced senses, so ‘hearing’ any crimes underway is likely not going to happen.

Finally, with the familiar sound of gunfire, Frank finally has something to investigate.

Thirty-six hours ago, he would have found the situation hilarious. Now, watching Spider-Man come under fire from a veritable rain of bullets makes Frank want to puke. Spider-Man is perfectly capable of dodging bullets. 

Frank knows this, because he has shot at Spider-Man before. 

For a few minutes, it looks like the kid — and he really does look like a kid, now that Frank is really _seeing_ him — has a fighting chance. Frank’s reluctant to interfere, because if he distracts Spider-Man now, it’s game over. Despite his shitty fighting form, Little Red at work is a sight to behold. He fluidly webs up guns and disables the shooters, all while dancing around the flying bullets.

But the moment the first one grazes the kid, Frank can tell he’s done for. It feels both like a fraction of a second and hours pass as the kid gets hit again, and again, and again, before falling.

Frank bellows, calling attention away from Spider-Man’s prone form. Frank’s not as well-armed as he would like to be in this situation, but at least he had the forethought to bring _something_. He’s grateful that Spider-Man managed to disarm and tie up at a good number of them.

For the second time that day, Frank Castle gets to work.

After he finishes the last of the bastards, Frank looks around. It’s a bloodbath. It always is, when he’s involved; it’s kind of his calling card. But he’s supposed to be dead, gone, more urban-legend than walking, breathing, shooting vigilante these days, so he’s toned it down for the last year or so. That, combined with the presence of Spider-Man’s webs paints a poor picture for the other vigilante (assuming he even makes it). Out of consideration for the kid’s reputation, Frank smears a rough ‘Punisher’ skull out of a smear of blood. Hopefully that will help deflect the blame.

Satisfied, Frank stumbles back to where Spider-Man fell, relieved beyond words to see his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. Kid’s still alive, at least. On closer inspection, the bullet wounds look— well, they look bad. They’re bullet wounds in a kid’s body. But they look more survivable than Frank had initially feared.

There’s no way Frank can bring him to the hospital like this. Not in the Spider-Man suit, not with the way the media and NYPD goes after him. He’ll be arrested. Flayed alive, metaphorically and possibly physically if he gets sent to jail.

Frank’ll have to get him changed, first. Check out the wounds and do some first-aid. Spider-Man is resilient; maybe he’ll pull through without a trip to the emergency room.

Frank watches him gasping for air under the mask. 

He’s never understood the insistence on ‘secret identities’ and the weird code that the superheroes and many of the so-called supervillains have built up around them. He knows it’ll anger Spider-Man to be unmasked, but he’s struggling to breathe and Frank will have to take it off him if he’s going to dump him at the ER anyways.

Might as well sate his curiosity now.

With a perfectly steady hand, Frank yanks the fabric away from Spider-Man’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My darling darlings, if you haven't checked out the Clint/Peter masterpiece that is [Frisky Business](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24478747/chapters/59083003) you need to.
> 
> Also, Y_ellow wrote [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25071397) absolutely adorable, amazing, smutty as heck Wade/Weasel centric poly fic that you should give a shot.
> 
> Annnnnd just in case you skipped it before, check out [the art that inspired this fic.](https://crazytom666.tumblr.com/post/163061489017)


	5. Cold Cuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, the Infamous Punisher brought him home and stitched him up. A day ago, Peter would have said the man wouldn’t pee on him if he was on fire. He wonders what changed.
> 
> (Peter wakes up in a strange location and meets his rescuer. It’s super awkward.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [WaterMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe) and [Y_ellow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Y_ellow/pseuds/Y_ellow) for cheer reading and betaing

Peter closes his eyes on a cold warehouse floor, screams and gunshots echoing in his ears. 

When he opens them, there’s warm yellow light spilling in from the open door, almost drowning out the calming yellow and blue walls.

He scrunches his eyes closed and takes five deep breaths. When he reopens them, the yellow and blue walls still surround him, still calm. He closes and opens his eyes five more times, expecting each time to find himself back in the warehouse. For a moment, Peter wonders if this is some sort of end-of-life vision—he hasn’t slept in a bed this big in _years_ . He’d suspect a memory, but the cheerful paint job isn’t a match for any apartment he can remember living in, and the bed is way too soft. It’s downright _plush._ The sheets are scratchier than he’s used to; they’re stiff and new feeling, not like the ancient, nearly transparent sets grabbed from estate sales.

And that sends Peter jolting upright, because if he’s dead he shouldn’t be able to _feel_ the sheets. His breath whooshes out in a pained hiss as his body reminds him that he was recently _shot,_ that he landed hard on broken concrete when he fell. 

Whoever took him to this strange and comfortable room took his mask off. That means they’ve seen his face, and that’s kind of a big deal right? Like, a really big deal. A really, _really_ bad thing, especially for May, and oh, God, he’s just letting May down so much today. First the chores, then almost dying on her, and now—

His enhanced senses pick up on approaching footfalls, snapping Peter out of his panic-spiral. He takes a deep breath and tries to prepare himself to face whoever it is that both saved and unmasked him. He’s not sure if he needs to be ready to thank them, or fight them, or maybe some combination of both.

All of his emotional preparation is vaporized as The Punisher walks into the cheery little yellow and blue room with a glass of water and a bottle of store-brand ibuprofen.

Peter can’t even really think of him as The Punisher like this. The Punisher doesn’t wear a ratty, paint stained tank top and pajama bottoms. The Punisher doesn’t just walk around with his feet _bare._ Peter’s never contemplated The Punisher’s toes before. But then, he’s not really The Punisher when he’s at home, is he? He’s...Frank Castle? Or at least, that was what the papers called him, back before he’d been announced dead. And then he’d come back and announced himself as _very_ much alive, by way of kicking in the ribs of every single bad man and Peter Parker who stood in his way.

“You’re awake,” rumbles Fran—oh no, he can’t call The Punisher _Frank._ Too familiar.

“Uhm,” Peter replies, like the honor roll student he is. “Yeah. Thanks? For that? I guess?”

Mr. Castle (there, that’s better) snorts and shakes the pill bottle, “You’re not allergic to ibuprofen, are you?”

“No?” Peter replies, feeling lost.

“Good,” his rescuer-slash-potential kidnapper grunts, popping open the bottle and shaking out a couple of pills as he approaches the bed. Peter’s not sure if he should try to stand up, or if he should burrow deeper under the covers and hide; would it be rude to treat The Punisher like the monster in his closet from when he was seven?

He decides to try to sit still and keep quiet, deeming it the safest course of action in the face of this mysterious Mr. Castle persona. Unfortunately, his body disagrees. When the man is about two feet away, Peter’s stomach lets out a warning growl.

_Stay back_.

Or, perhaps more accurately:

_Feed me!_

Peter manages to blush which is, objectively, impressive. He wonders what vital organs aren’t getting sufficiently oxygenated as he feels the heat spread across his cheeks, to the tips of his ears. As if being swaddled in floral blankets isn’t humiliating enough; now he’s got to worry about brain damage

A strange look crosses Mr. Castle’s face, and for a second Peter thinks he’s about to get yelled at (or possibly even punched). Instead, the man’s lips twist into a pained sort of smile.

Alarming.

“It’s best not to take painkillers on an empty stomach.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” Peter nods, unsure of where Mr. Castle is going with that.

“You got any food allergies? I’ll make you a sandwich.”

Before Peter can respond he’s turning away, presumably in the direction of said sandwich. Unsure of the proper etiquette in this situation, Peter slips out of the bed. It’d be rude to get crumbs on the comforter, after all. Anyway, he’s done doing his best impersonation of a rose-petal garnished blanket- burrito. 

Peter’s vision greys out at the edges and the room spins around him for a long, nauseous second, and wow, he hasn’t felt that sensation when standing up for _awhile_. When he finally feels steady on his feet, he looks up to see Mr. Castle staring at him in surprise from the doorway.

“I was going to bring you the sandwich here,” he says, after a long, awkward moment.

Peter feels another rush of self-consciousness, followed by horror as he realizes he doesn’t recognize the soft, oversized shirt and shorts he’s wearing.

Holy shit. The Punisher _dressed him_.

Mr. Castle seems to follow Peter’s line of thinking and then has the _audacity_ to turn pink and look away. As if he’s not the one who made the decision to undress Peter and then executed it all by himself.

“I had to clean up your wounds, and if I had to bring you to the emergency room I couldn’t while you were… so…”

“Right,” Peter nods, feeling floaty and distant. It’s too much, too fast. He’s experienced so much bizarre humiliation in the last few minutes that he’s circled around back to calm acceptance.

So he follows Mr. Castle out of the room on autopilot. Besides, it’s a good test of how he’s doing physically. Which, in all honesty is...not great. The stairs are a struggle, and he has to pause a couple of times to get his bearings.

By the time he’s leaning against the doorway of the kitchen, he’s winded and light-headed. Peter knows he’s been hurt worse than this, but he doesn’t ever remember feeling this woozy afterwards.

“You dodged even while you were getting hit,” Mr. Castle says, his voice a combination of accusatory and impressed. “Just grazes, but you lost a lot of blood.”

Peter’s hand moves instinctively to his side, feeling for the most memorable wound. He winces when he touches something tender through the borrowed shirt.

“Don’t pick your stitches,” Mr. Castle grumbles, reaching out as if to grab Peter’s arm, and then awkwardly drawing back.

“Sorry,” Peter mutters, and lets his hand drop. He still can’t wrap his head around it. The infamous Punisher brought him home and stitched him up. The Punisher is making him a _sandwich._ A day ago, Peter would have said the man wouldn’t pee on him if he was on fire. He wonders what changed.

“Roast beef okay?” Mr. Castle has already moved on, facing away from Peter and digging around in his refrigerator.

“Uh, yeah. Yes! Sounds great!” Peter suddenly remembers his abandoned lunch. His complete lack of dinner.

No wonder he feels like crap—he was running on fumes even _before_ he got shot. He slides gingerly into a chair, feeling bad that he isn’t helping, but he’s starting to see spots again. Besides, Ned’s mom always tells him that it’s rude not to let a host dote on their guest at all. And he _knows_ how Mr. Castle feels about his ‘interference,’ although he’s not clear if that applies in the context of sandwich-making.

So he spaces out, watching Mr. Castle putter around the kitchen. The man pulls irregularly-shaped pieces of meat and cheese from little parcels of brown paper (he gets his cold cuts from the _deli_ , he must be _loaded_ ). Peter can make out one of the labels, and that’s a _specialty cheese_ store, wow.

His eyes idly drift to the way Mr. Castle’s shoulders move as he slices up a tomato and chops lettuce and _holy shit_ . No wonder it hurts when he gets punched by The Punisher. The man is _built_. Not that Peter didn’t already know, but it’s one thing to be aware of how strong someone is when they’re pummeling you, and quite another to watch someone that muscular wearing a tanktop and sawing thick slices of marbled rye bread.

Embarrassingly, he’s so dazed that when Mr. Castle turns around and brings the sandwich over that he doesn’t stop staring.

“You must be really hungry,” Mr. Castle says as he sets an enormous stack of bread, vegetables, meat, and cheese down on the table.

It gives Peter a moment to refocus on the food, at least, and to cover his shame over practically staring holes into Mr. Castle’s shoulder blades. He mumbles his thanks to the floral tablecloth (why is it floral, how did he not notice it’s _floral_ ) and takes a huge bite.

And then another.

And another.

He means to savor it, to voice his appreciation between bites, but he can’t stop himself from shoving it into his mouth as fast as he can. It’s as if the first contact of bread with tongue opened up a black hole where his stomach is meant to be, and the only thing that can possibly fill it is marble rye and roast beef and...Peter doesn’t even know what kind of cheese is on this sandwich. He’s probably never even had it before, he should probably stop and ask and be polite, but—

Mr. Castle’s massive, calloused hands appear in his periphery with another sandwich and a glass of water, just as Peter finishes the first.

“Remember to breathe,” he growls, but there’s a hint of humor in his eyes. Peter flushes and wipes at his mouth, taking a big gulp of water to try to slow himself down a bit.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbles.

Mr. Castle waves him off and slides into the chair across the table. Peter isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do, so after a moment of silence he gives into the urge to devour the second sandwich.

“I remember being a teenager,” Mr. Castle muses as Peter inhales his food. “It felt like I was a walking stomach. My Ma was convinced that’s exactly what I was.”

Peter has no idea where Mr. Castle is going with this, but chewing is always a good excuse not to respond. He takes smaller bites so he can drag it out longer, and also to give his brain time to catch up with his stomach so he doesn’t come across as a glutton, aiming to hit ‘not hungry’ without passing it by and swan-diving straight into ‘Violet Beauregard’ territory. 

“What about your mom?”

It’s an abrupt, awkward transition. Not unlike Mr. Castle himself, in a lot of ways.

Peter takes a moment to swallow, then responds as carefully as he can, “What about my mom?”

“What does she think of,” Mr. Castle gestures vaguely at Peter, “this?”

A shrug is the only response Peter can think of. Announcing that his mom is deceased seems incredibly uncomfortable, and he doesn’t want to have that conversation right now. Plus he _cannot_ let The Punisher know about Aunt May, no matter how nice Mr. Castle is being.

“Does she even know?” the older man looks increasingly agitated. Peter can see The Punisher simmering under the Mr. Castle facade that he’s been putting on after unmasking (and effectively kidnapping) Spider-Man.

“That I eat a lot?” Peter says slowly. He knows, he _knows_ it’s a dumb thing to say.

The purpling of Mr. Castle’s face is positively artistic, and Peter can feel a low thrum unders his skin as his Spidey-sense comes online. Not a klaxon, warning him of immediate harm, but a marked increase in alertness. Yellow to amber, perhaps. A thrill of... _something_ runs through him.

“Does she know you run around trying to get yourself killed every night?” 

Mr Castle manages, with great effort, to get the words out in something resembling an indoor voice. 

“Of course not,” Peter scrunches his nose. He would _never_ put that on Aunt May. He could probably tell his mom, though.

“And she doesn’t notice you’re missing every night?” The question slides out with the cool, controlled precision of someone who is _incredibly_ angry.

“Not everyone works nine to five,” Peter snaps. He feels a distant flicker of guilt at how rude he’s being but—he’s _sick_ of the assumptions, sick of the condescending tone. Mr. Castle doesn’t know the _first_ thing about him.

There’s a screech as Mr. Castle’s chair scoots back, and he rises above Peter in a jerky motion. Peter’s Spidey-sense holds steady, so he just stares owlishly at the man, waiting to see what he’ll do. He… does not expect Mr. Castle to turn away and start throwing together another sandwich, mutilating a tomato with rough hacks of a chef’s knife.

“Look, kid,” Mr. Castle sighs. Apparently the solanaceous violence calmed him down enough to slip back into the veneer of civility like some sort of creepy skin-suit, as he sets the third sandwich in front of Peter. This one is bigger than the other two, but Peter is still somehow starving, so maybe that’s not a bad thing. “There is _nothing_ worse than burying your own child.”

Peter feels a twist of guilt. He knows that was almost the case for May tonight. He knows how cruel it would be to do that to her, especially so close to Ben’s anniversary, but—

“I know,” Peter replies sullenly. He remembers the face of a young mother after he’d returned her lost toddler to her. He remembers the raw emotion in the tired eyes of a dad as he opened his front door, after Peter talked a young woman down off a ledge and she asked for him to bring her _home_. “That’s why I’ve gotta keep doing it.”

That seems to shut Mr. Castle up, at least for the time being. Peter starts the third sandwich in relative peace, finally starting to feel better as he licks the mustard from his fingertips. Usually he hates the stuff, but maybe that’s just because they always get that lurid yellow store-brand.

Every once in a while he catches Mr. Castle’s eye, and gets a grumpy sigh in return. After the eighth sigh (Peter counts) the older man finally gets up and leaves the kitchen. Peter is a little concerned that he might be going to get some sort of weapon to threaten him out of his nightly activities. Or maybe a belt so he can bend Peter over his knee and—

Peter is choking on air when Mr. Castle returns, yet another pill bottle in hand.

“You ok, kid?”

“Yeah,” Peter gasps, taking a gulp of water and trying desperately to will himself to stop coughing. He can’t look Mr. Castle in the eye. Unfortunately this puts him looking at him in the thigh, which is even less helpful.

“Don’t pop a stitch,” Mr. Castle grumbles, approaching cautiously.

The glass of water is removed, and for a moment Peter thinks The Punisher somehow managed to figure out what he was thinking and is going to let him choke to death on his embarrassment as penance. Then it returns, refilled, alongside an enormous, un-appetizingly metallic smelling tablet.

A few sips of water help Peter get the fit at least somewhat under control. Enough for him to look quizzically at the tablet and then back at Mr. Castle for clarification, at least.

“Iron,” he grunts.

Which is weird. Like, kinda really weird. Why the hell is Mr. Castle giving him vitamins?

“You lost a lot of blood,” Mr. Castle explains, making Peter wonder if the other man really can read minds. It also makes him hope against hope that the blood-loss will make him blush less obviously, but from the way his ears and face are burning, that seems unlikely.

“Thanks, Mr. Castle,” Peter says and grabs the vitamin, downing it quickly. Hopefully good manners will save him from whatever the hell it was that came over him before.

“Frank,” Mr. Castle grunts. When Peter stares at him stupidly, he shrugs. “Call me Frank.”

Oh. Right. His name is _Frank_ Castle.

Peter doesn’t think they’re on a first name basis, but he nods anyways.

His eyes slide over to the wall clock and he nearly chokes on air again.

“I need to get home!” Peter gasps. “My web-shooters, I need—”

“Slow down there, kid,” Mr. Castle settles a hand on Peter’s shoulder before he can rush out of the room. It’s enough to make him pause, even though he could easily break away. Does the man think he can keep Peter here? Has he really been kidnapped? Oh god, what if that wasn’t an iron supplement, what if it was some sort of drug?!

“Do you even know how to get home from here?” Mr. Castle asks. In his current frame of mind, Peter finds the question very ominous indeed.

“I can figure it out,” Peter stammers, eyeing any potential exits.

Mr. Castle rolls his eyes. “Or, I could drive you.”

Peter blinks a couple of times. That doesn’t sound like something a kidnapper would say. 

“Thank you, but if you could just give me my web shooters, I can get back on my own.”

“You don’t even know where we are. And your costume is shredded, and I don’t want you pulling those stitches.”

It’s hardly the worst argument Peter’s ever heard. And he’s certainly gone along with worse plans with weaker reasoning (thank you, Harry), but it still feels really strange to force out an agreement. “Ok. That’d be great, Mr. Castle.”

Mr. Castle twitches, but doesn’t correct him.

-

Peter had never really thought about what sort of car someone like The Punisher might drive. A black, windowless van complete with a skull painted on the side? Maybe some sort of heavy weaponry zip-tied to the top?

But no. Mr. Castle drives an ambiguously dark-colored station wagon. He hustles Peter in before he can thoroughly inspect it, and Peter has a sharp moment of suspicion that Mr. Castle is intentionally keeping him from memorizing the license plate, before he remembers that they _are_ kind of on a time crunch, and he has no idea how long it’ll take to get back to his neighborhood from wherever the hell they are now.

Mr. Castle had been gruffly efficient in getting ready to leave. He hadn’t needed to run back inside for his keys _even once_ (let alone twice).

He’s so efficient that before Peter can blink he’s opened the door, pushed him in, and buckled the seatbelt for him, depositing a paper grocery bag containing the bloody remnants of the Spider-Man suit on his lap. They hit a roadblock when it comes to navigating, though.

Mr. Castle wants to know where Peter lives, and Peter very much does _not_ want The Punisher to have his home address. Unfortunately, Peter doesn’t have a convenient, nearby address memorized. He finally tells Mr. Castle to drop him off at Delmar’s Deli-Grocery, which is near enough but not so close that he thinks Mr. Castle will find his home and be waiting for Peter when he gets back from classes the next day. The look Mr. Castle gives him could peel paint.

“You don’t live at a grocery store, kid,” Mr. Castle growls at him.

“No, but it’s close by,” Peter crosses his arms defensively.

“Just tell me what building to drop you off in.”

“No.”

“Kid…” Mr. Castle says warningly.

Peter reaches for the release of his seatbelt. “I’ll just swing home. Thanks for the offer, but—”

He’s cut off by Mr. Castle firmly grabbing his wrist. Peter could shake him off easily, but the warm, callused grip makes him pause for a second.

“It’s ‘Delmar Deli’?” Mr. Castle’s jaw is twitching, and Peter can tell he’s not happy.

“Delmar’s Deli-Grocery, yeah. In Queens,” Peter specifies.

Mr. Castle jabs at his phone, hard enough that Peter is concerned for the screen’s structural integrity. Then it boops and beeps and an artificially soothing, computerized woman’s voice starts directing them.

They don’t talk for the entire ride, which Peter is both thankful for and not. Mr. Castle is angry, and Peter shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He wants to say something to break the tension, but he’s pretty sure the only thing that will appease Mr. Castle is giving away his home address, and that isn’t happening. Period. Anything else he says, he’s pretty sure will just piss his impromptu chauffeur off even more, which Peter very much Does Not Need.

The situation is made even more bizarre by Mr. Castle’s…interesting taste in music. By the time they’re _(finally)_ arriving and cutting the gas, a man is singing about grinding coffee with a shotgun’s blast. Peter is suspicious that the lyrical imagery may evoke more memory than metaphor for Mr. Castle.

Peter is undoing his buckle and reaching for the door when Mr. Castle grabs his wrist again.

“You need to come back so I can check your stitches in a few nights. Keep them clean, too.”

“I can take care of them,” Peter replies, feeling weirdly defensive. Sure, he’s never dealt with stitches before, but he can always, like, Youtube a tutorial or something.

“No.” Mr. Castle squeezes a little. “You need to come back on Friday and let me check them over,” and Peter would be nervous except that Mr. Castle decreases the pressure almost immediately and runs a rough thumb soothingly over the area.

“Not Friday,” Peter shakes his head, realizing as he does that he’s just agreed to come see Mr. Castle. Damn it.

“Hot date?” Mr. Castle sneers, and Peter hunches up his shoulders, his ears burning.

“I’m...no! I’m just busy, okay? Not Friday.”

“Saturday. No later,” Mr. Castle dictates, and Peter nods, dazed.

Satisfied, Mr. Castle reaches over Peter to open the glove compartment.

When Peter is finally allowed to leave, it’s with an address scrawled on a sticky note in the shape of a particularly plump corgi, adhered carefully to his paper bag of stuff.

“I put the iron supplements in your bag,” Mr. Castle grumbles as Peter steps out, barefoot, onto the pavement. “If you have any little brothers or sisters make sure they don’t get into ‘em.”

“Of course,” Peter nods.

“And don’t forget about Saturday,” Mr. Castle says as Peter starts to close the door.

“I won’t,” Peter reassures him. “Uhm, thanks? For the vitamins. And the ride.” And for saving his ass, but Peter just wants to go home, so he leaves it at that and shuts the door.

-

He manages to scramble into the window of his bedroom without fanfare, and is just starting to drift off when he hears the door to his room open.

“Peter?” May asks, sounding tentative and worried.

_Shit shit shit_. Did she check earlier and he wasn’t here? Did something bad happen?

Peter tries to give his most non-incriminating, definitely-asleep grunt.

“I’m so sorry about earlier, I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I…” She trails off, and Peter wants nothing more than to leap up and tell her it’s okay, but then he realizes he’s still in Mr. Castle’s clothes, and he can’t.

“Thank you for cleaning up so much,” May murmurs after a painful pause. “And let’s plan what we’re going to do on Friday over breakfast.”

She’s not mad. She’s not mad at him anymore, and Peter feels like shouting for joy, only he’s supposed to be asleep, so he says in his best impression of a sleepy slur. “Sounds nice... Love you.”

And maybe it’s a little weird for him to say that, but he’s had a weird night.

Peter is definitely getting his good luck hug from her tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out WaterMe's upsettingly bicep-ful Clint/Peter Enemies to Pets to Lovers fic [Frisky Business](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24478747/chapters/59083003)
> 
> And then take a gander (ha! Gander! Cause I'm Goose!) at Y_ellow's stunningly beautiful Weasel and Wade-centric polyship fic [there's a whisper in my bones (keeping me restless)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25071397)


	6. Conversational Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His fingers twitch as he recalls prodding the kid's ribs, feeling for the black and blue prints his own boots left just days ago. Bruises should have just been hitting their full bloom.
> 
> There had been nothing. No sign of the violence inflicted.
> 
> It almost troubles Frank more, that he couldn’t see the damage he’d done to the kid.
> 
> (Frank processes the events of Tuesday night and meets up with a friend)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super special ultra thanks to [WaterMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe) and [Y_ellow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Y_ellow/pseuds/Y_ellow) for helping me get this chapter finished and fit for human eyes.

Frank sits there in his car for a long time, long after the kid has stumbled his way out onto the streets, ambling towards what Frank hopes is a warm and welcoming bed. 

_Shit_. What the hell is he doing? Waiting for the kid to flick the lights on and off for him three times to signal he made it home safe? 

So he sits there, like an asshole, waiting for some signal that will never come that it’s okay to go because the injured, barefoot kid has gotten home safe. When enough time has passed that he’s certain he would have heard the boy’s screams if they were going to come (if he’s close enough to hear them) he forces himself to put the keys in the ignition. There’s nothing he can do at this point.

The drive home passes in a haze. Frank is too tired to be functional, but too riled up to sleep. Instead, he cleans the kitchen and lets Max out of his room, where he’d been exiled after a few enthusiastic (and slobbery) attempts to help patch the kid up. He eyes the pooch pad he’d gotten suckered into buying on Labor Day sales — meant for a dog twice Max’s size with all five star reviews. The little outlaw eyes him happily from where he’s curled up in the exact center of the bed, little white and gray hairs radiating out across the duvet. The bed is usually forbidden territory, what with Frank’s night terrors and his concern over exacerbating whatever deep psychological wounds his drooly companion must bear from his own history of abuse. Of course he’d taken the opportunity to check it out.

Frank grumbles, but still pats Max’s head as he trots out of the room, the mutt’s tail wagging so hard he loses rear-leg coordination. He should take the spot that Max just vacated, should at least  _ try _ to sleep. Instead his legs carry him to the guest bathroom (triage bathroom more like, god knows it sees more blood than guests) and he starts cleaning up the supplies left strewn around from patching up the kid.

A surgical needle coated in dried blood creates a plume of red when he drops it in a repurposed sauerkraut jar full of rubbing alcohol. The memory of the kid’s skin plumes with it, all unblemished planes, marred only by ragged troughs plowed into it with bullets. His fingers twitch as he recalls prodding the kid's ribs, feeling for the black and blue prints his own boots left just days ago. Bruises should have just been hitting their full bloom.

There was nothing. The skin was pale and unblemished as freshly fallen snow. No sign of the violence inflicted.

It almost troubles Frank more, that he couldn’t see the damage he’d done to the kid. He’d suspected that Spider-Man heals fast, but it doesn’t seem right that kid’s body just takes and erases abuse like that. Unfair, somehow, to the boy. Anyone could hurt him — hurt him badly — and just a few days later he’ll be good as new. Ready for more.

Frank is familiar with what beaten bodies look like. He can hold those injuries in his mind, long after the boy’s skin has forgotten them. He deserves that burden.

Once the bathroom no longer looks like a murder scene (he’ll do a full scrub with disinfectant in the morning), he heaves himself into the guest room, with vague notions of changing the sheets. He’s at the foot of the bed, contemplating the lump of blankets that the kid had vacated like some kind of moth abandoning the tattered remains of its cocoon, when the exhaustion finally hits him like a wall. He barely gets himself situated on the now-crushed mound of blankets, nose filling with the faint smell of blood, antiseptic, and cheap, fruity shampoo, and then he’s falling into a deep and unusually dreamless sleep.

When Frank wakes up a few hours later, his mouth tasting of tooth-fuzz, he feels settled. More than he has in months, if he’s being honest with himself. He’s been drifting by. Micro’s acerbic suggestions and Sarah Lieberman's polite guidance offered him direction, but not true purpose.

Purpose drives him now. He sends a text message to Karen Page, asking to meet. They don’t see each other often, but he considers her a friend. He hopes she considers him the same. Realistically, she probably doesn’t.

He doesn’t get a response until after he’s scrubbed down the bathroom and sprayed every hard surface, heavy-duty tuberculocidal disinfectant gleaming wetly as he closes the door. He’s wrestling the sheets from the guestroom into the washer and mentally composing a grocery list when his phone buzzes.

**Karen Page:** Sounds great! Can you come over to my place at 6pm?

Frank spends more time than he cares to admit contemplating an appropriate host gift. His first thought is flowers, but he’s afraid they’d send the wrong message. Ditto wine and chocolates, and he’s sure he’s overheard Sarah saying one had to be careful with gifting houseplants, since they require ongoing effort from the recipient. He finally decides not to bring anything. He’s going to talk to her for business reasons, after all. And he’s pretty sure neither Murdock nor Nelson have the manners to remember things like host gifts anyway, so Karen probably won’t expect one from him either.

Hopefully.

He spends the rest of the day distracting himself with errands.

He picks up more bread, even though he isn’t fond of the bread-man that works on Wednesdays (he refuses to give that moron the title of ‘baker’). The tall, lanky young man seems to care more about ‘customer service’ than making a decent loaf. Frank prefers the woman — five feet of utter contempt — that works on Saturdays . He’ll have to stop back by get more of the rye bread the kid seemed to enjoy so much before he comes over to get his stitches checked. For now, Frank grabs a loaf of sourdough, because even the beaming, pimpley chump can’t fuck that up too bad. He eyes the bread-man thoughtfully, unable to stop himself from comparing every youthful face he sees to the one he uncovered under the Spider-Man mask. The bread-man is older than Spidey, but Little Red has way better skin. He wonders if that’s part of the superpower package, or if the boy is just lucky. There’s no way that mask doesn’t encourage acne.

“Have a  _ wonderful _ day, sir,” the bread-man simpers, handing over the loaf that Frank had to insist, several times, that he  _ did not _ want sliced. Frank grunts, and very politely does not flip him off on his way out the door.

He watches the news, flicking through channels, scanning radio stations, before he gets so bored-agitated-angry that he takes Max on a walk just to blow off some steam.

By the time he’s calmed himself down enough to be decent company, Max is panting and dragging on the leash, and it’s time to head over to Karen’s.

* * *

Karen is excited to see him. Which is...well.

It's nice. Unexpected. Unusual. But nice.

It does mean he's going to have to explain the entirety of the warehouse incident, though. 

Which....

Fuck.

He decides to delay the inevitable, letting her wave him in and set him down on the couch, chattering about whatever charity case she's helping Foggy and Murdock with this time. Some kind of class-action lawsuit with big business dumping hazardous waste in low-income neighborhoods or something.

It’s exactly the sort of thing Karen should be championing. She looks good. Happy. Her long, silky hair is just a little damp from the shower, and she looks nice in her casual clothes. He notices just a touch of freshly applied makeup and frowns.

She either notices his break from the blandly polite expression he's been working on for months, or she finally ran out of things to say.

“You're not here for a social visit,” she says, fixing him with her Karen-Stare (the ‘I’m onto your shit’ Karen-Stare, not the ‘Jesus and also Matt Murdock would be very disappointed in you’ Karen-Stare).

Frank blinks. He’s pretty sure he has never, in the time Karen has known him, gone on a social visit. Even his weekly meet ups with Micro are more to prove that he hasn't gone totally feral (yet), or gone on a(nother) messy killing spree, or to confirm that Lieberman hasn't gotten himself assassinated (again), than for socialization.

He would almost think she was joking, if she didn't look so damn disappointed.

“No," he replies. It's the first thing he's actually  _ said _ this entire time, and the word feels strange on his lips. Stale. Unwelcome.

Of course the moment he opens his mouth, Karen is no longer happy to see him.

Well, no. Not exactly. She'd already been on the fence after five minutes in his presence. Those two letters had simply tipped her over the edge. If he was a better person, he would set aside his mission and spend a pleasant evening with her. If he was a smarter man, he'd pretend he was there to socialize and somehow extract the information he wanted, without letting on that it was the only reason he'd reached out.

He’s not better, and he’s definitely not smarter.

"I killed about a dozen men in a warehouse last night," Frank says, because there are no words to make a bloodbath pretty, even if her journalistic heart would disagree.

"Jesus, Frank," Karen gasps, her carefully cultivated ‘attentive journalist’ pose breaking as she slumps into the armchair.

"They shot Spider-Man," Frank explains. She pales dramatically, and he rushes to assure her. “He wasn’t critically injured,” or, he was, except that his physiology allowed him to walk it off. Either way, all Karen needs to know is that Spider-Man survived. “He’s fine.”

The relief in her face quickly gives way to a ferocious scowl. She stands, pacing and pressing her knuckles to her mouth.

“Who would shoot Spider-Man?” she whispers, more to herself than to Frank. He doesn’t volunteer the information that he had been strongly considering doing so himself less than a week ago. And that it was far from the first time.

Frank shrugs, unsure of how to respond. They were just nameless lackeys, and now they’re lying dead in a warehouse somewhere. He didn’t exactly take the time to question them.

“You don’t understand,” Karen shakes her head. “Spider-Man raised twelve thousand dollars for Bobbi and the Strays.”

Frank stares at her. First of all, because that information does not seem correct or possible, and secondly because he doesn’t see how it matters where bullets are concerned. He has no idea who (or what) ‘Bobbi and the Strays’ are, either.

“It’s a no-kill animal shelter. And, well,” she amends under his scrutiny, “he raised thirty-two dollars and eighty-seven cents. Which is still impressive, since he was just gathering cans and bottles that ended up in hard-to-reach places. And then he kept giving them to anyone who was going around collecting cans and bottles in the area. The rest of the money came from an online fundraiser after a TikTok went viral.”

“But the bottle deposit is five cents,” Frank says slowly.

“Well, yeah,” Karen looks away. “He also picks up pennies. But only if they’re heads up. And are in hard-to-reach places.”

“How—?” Frank whispers. He also wants to ask ‘why?’ Both in front of ‘do you know that?’

“We all have hobbies, Frank,” Karen replies primly. When his expression doesn’t change, she rubs her nose and continues, “I’m a damn good investigative journalist, and just because I decided to use those skills to help the Avocados…”

Frank assesses her carefully. He hopes that her prolonged contact with both Murdock and himself hasn’t compromised her in some way; he very much does not want to find out that he needs to find a merciful way to put her down.

“I write fluff pieces about Spider-Man for pop-news sites,” she admits, staring him dead in the eye as if daring him to mock her. The red blooming across her cheeks undercuts the effect. “I also manage an Instagram account.”

“You what?”

“Someone needs to counter the bile that the  _ Bugle’s _ fascist propaganda machine keeps spewing,” she grumbles.

He supposes she isn’t wrong; the kid gets notoriously bad press, and a little bit of fluff can’t hurt. 

Karen paces, the embarrassed flush slowly receding as she thinks. She’s a good ally for the kid to have, even unwittingly.

“He’s not like you and Matty,” she says suddenly, breaking the yawning silence.

“Me and Murdock?” Frank snorts.

“You two share frighteningly similar core beliefs, don’t even try to deny it.”

Frank feels his upper lip curl into a sneer. If it were any other night, he  _ would  _ argue that claim.

“But that’s not the point,” Karen informs him as she pads back and forth in the cramped apartment living room.

“The point?” Frank prompts after a few seconds.

“The point is, he’s...if he were any sweeter, I’d be seriously concerned about the possibility of him getting carried off by ants! Why the hell would anyone be shooting at  _ Spider-Man _ ?”

“He  _ is _ a masked vigilante who interrupts criminal activity from time to time,” Frank points out laconically. Because yeah, Spider-Man might get cats out of trees, but he also runs around interrupting muggings and stick-ups (not to mention sorely-deserved beatings, delivered with extreme prejudice to assholes who have it coming).

The look Karen gives him would singe the hair off most men. Frank blinks.

“Where was this?” she asks.

Frank shrugs. “Sunnyside?" Damn, he should have kept better track. He'd been so focused on the _kid bleeding out in his_ _arms_ that he hadn't noted the address. “Maybe Maspeth. Near the river.”

“Huh.” She chews her bottom lip, looking thoughtful. “Seems like someone would be around to notice.”

“I mean, I was,” Frank shrugs.

Karen gives an indelicate snort. “I mean it’s very odd that a shooting like that isn’t a headline today.”

“It is. Especially given the calling card I left behind.”

Her head snaps up. “You’re supposed to be flying under the radar.”.

Frank bristles back. “It was that or leave them to think it was Spider-Man, what with all the webs laying around. Kind of distinctive.”

“The media would love to have a story about Spider-Man massacring a warehouse full of people,” Karen chews her thumbnail, “and NYPD aren’t his biggest fans, so I can’t imagine they’d cover it up.”

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” Frank admits. “To see how the scene was being handled. I figured you’d have heard about it.”

“I would have, if anyone was talking about it. That’s...concerning.”

“That you haven’t heard about it?” Frank asks.

“That no one is talking about it. I’m going to try to make some quiet inquiries.” Karen sounds distracted as she starts writing down notes on a yellow legal pad. “Try to keep a low profile?”

Frank grunts, noncommittal.

“Ass,” she says, sounding incredibly fond.

“I take it, that’s my cue to leave?” Frank stands and rolls his shoulders.

“Since you only came to try to get information about it, and I won’t have any until I get some work done…”

“Thanks,” he says with a wince. “Seriously.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbles, but smiles.

As he slips out the door, he pauses and turns back. “You look really good. Happy.”

He hopes he hasn’t just ruined that for her.

* * *

Unsettled, he spends the rest of the week pacing the house, obsessing over every hit he’s ever seen anyone— ever felt  _ himself _ — land on Spider-Man.

Karen reached out the morning after his visit, saying she would ‘let him know as soon as she heard back.’ More direct than his sense of paranoia would have liked, but also vague enough to be frustrating. Classic Karen.

After that, radio (or rather, phone) silence. 

He works himself up thinking about how  _ easy _ it should have been for the kid to fight them all off, given his exceptional reflexes, his strength, his flexibility. If he had even the slightest clue about how to defend himself...Frank shakes his head. 

He replenishes his med-kit at the drugstore. When he goes to grab more iron supplements, he remembers reading something about vitamin C assisting in absorption, so he grabs a bottle of that, too.

It doesn’t help the feeling of agitation that follows him, no matter how many walks he gives Max. He cleans, he fidgets, he does squats and push-ups until his joints creak in complaint, then he goes and cleans some more. Still, the feeling persists.

Frank is only slightly grumpier on Saturday when he goes to get his loaf of rye bread from the competent baker. He barely restrains a growl at the kid who knocks into his leg, a giant black and white frosted cookie occupying the whole of their attention.

The woman at the counter seems, as always, to share his disdain for small talk. She gives him two loaves of rye, fresh out of the oven. Just before he’s about to pay, he remembers the little cookie kid’s gleeful expression and asks for two black and whites.

The kid could use the calories, and he’s pretty sure all teenage boys like cookies.

Then he goes to make sure he has plenty of fresh vegetables, cheese and meat on hand. Just in case.

Maria probably had some unspoken rule against feeding a guest the same thing two times in a row, but Frank’s culinary range is not wide. Besides, he can’t imagine taking the time to cook up a pot of spaghetti for the kid while he sits in the living room, and having it sitting ready for his arrival seems wrong. The kid might not show up, and then Frank would have a massive pot of spaghetti on his hands. And then what would he do? He doesn’t even like spaghetti that much.

Anyway, in his experience teenage boys will eat pretty much anything you put in front of them. And this particular teenage boy seems too polite to say anything about a repeat menu gaffe. So. Roast beef sandwiches. If the kid shows.

Triple checking his med-kit isn’t necessary; He’s carefully unpacked and repacked it twice every day since he drove the kid back to that desolate corner in Queens. He does it again anyway.

He considers that sweatpants might be too casual, might make the kid feel uncomfortable, and changes into a pair of worn but stain-free cargo pants.

By the time it’s dark, it’s all Frank can do to make himself sit down in the living room to wait. If he fidgets much more he’s going to start destroying things, and he doesn’t want a mess on his hands when the kid comes. 

If the kid comes.

The kid better show up. 

If he doesn’t, Frank feels an itch that says he won’t be able to hold back from suiting up as The Punisher and dragging Spider-Man back here, whether he wants it or not. Not to ‘punish’. Just to make sure he’s alright, make sure he’s healing up okay. Maybe give the kid a quick refresher on manners.

He’s about to give up on waiting quietly and head to the kitchen, where he will inevitably destroy some cabinetry, when a hesitant knock on the door echoes through the house.

Max’s ears prick up, interrupting his slumber in the middle of his extra-plush doggy bed, but after a second he starts snoring again.

There had been a time when he hadn’t been so worthless as a guard dog, Frank thinks. Probably. Maybe.

He walks calmly to the door, and opens it to find a slightly sweaty, pink-cheeked boy. The kid is wearing a hoodie, looking like any other kid hanging out on the weekend, but Frank can see the red and blue of the Spidey suit peeking out ever so slightly where the too-big neckline pools on his clavicles.

Frank breathes a sigh of relief and lets him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you like this and you enjoy burning in rare-pair hell, check out the works of my enablers and beta readers!
> 
> With [WaterMe's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe) [Frisky Business](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24478747/chapters/59083003) all wrapped up, you should check out the gorgeous (and featuring even more biceps!) Bucky/Clint/Peter sequel, [Aubergine, Vibranium, and Spider Silk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26746267)
> 
> Also take a moment to check out [Y_ellow's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Y_ellow/pseuds/Y_ellow) gorgeous Wade and Weasel-centric polyfic, [there's a whisper in my bones (keeping me restless)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25071397)


	7. Dogs in Flower Halos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May is in the kitchen, struggling valiantly with a spoon against a tube of cinnamon roll dough. Peter watches for a moment before swooping in to the rescue, popping the cardboard open with ease. At least his strength is good for something.
> 
> “Thanks, bun.” She gives him a watery smile.
> 
> If there are tears in both their eyes, it’s only because May’s signature store-bought cinnamon rolls are just that good.
> 
> And then it’s time to go.
> 
> (Peter goes to visit family.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo, I got a longer than usual chapter lined up for you guys since it took so long to put out. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> There is some content relating to Judaism in this chapter, and while I did my best to research it and portray things correctly, I myself am not Jewish. If I screwed anything up, please feel free let me know!
> 
> Thank you [WaterMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe) and [Y_ellow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Y_ellow/pseuds/Y_ellow) for cheer reading and betaing, and [high_functioning_sociopath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/high_functioning_sociopath/pseuds/high_functioning_sociopath) and [CuteAsAMuntin](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/CuteAsAMuntin/pseuds/CuteAsAMuntin) for giving it a sensitivity read.

Peter wakes up to the blaring of his alarm with the scent of coffee and baking chocolate heavy in the air. 

He groans and throws an arm over his eyes, which makes him groan more because _ow, stitches_. He’s long since burned through whatever chemical cocktail —either natural or Punisher sourced— that had kept him going through the extremely weird interaction at _Mr. Castle’s house._

It’s tempting to give himself more than his traditional five minutes of moping, to just fall back asleep and have May call him in sick for the day, except he smells coffee and something sweet and chocolate in the oven, meaning May is awake, and she told him last night that they’d talk in the morning which is _right now_.

He’s _Spider-Man._ He can force himself out of bed. He can have a conversation with his aunt who may-or-may-not wish he’d been on that plane with his parents. 

It doesn’t hurt _that_ bad, he assures himself. He’s gone to school the morning after picking charred and melted pieces of his suit out of burn wounds. That _had_ to have hurt worse than this, and he got through it. And anyway, just because he gets out of bed, that doesn’t mean he _has_ to go to school. He’ll get up and shower and talk with May. If he still feels awful, he can just crawl back into bed.

It’s a stupid method of tricking himself into going to school when he feels like crap, but Peter is the crown prince of falling for stupid distractions. He grumbles as he hauls out of bed and shambles to the bathroom, annoyed at how readily he falls for even his _own_ half-assed deceptions. 

A mirror inspection of the damage is like one of those ’good news, bad news’ scenarios. Good news first: his face and arms are blessedly unmarked, which is _really_ good because he is total shit at cover stories. Under agonizingly removed gauze — the bad news. Thick black lines of stitches march across his skin, looking even more ghastly against a backdrop of olive-colored bruises.

It looks even worse than when Harry came to school with five stitches in his chin, courtesy of his short-lived skateboarding phase. 

(Peter doesn’t think he ever saw him actually ride it; just carry it around awkwardly, the accumulating bruises and cuts the only evidence he’d ever laid a foot on the thing.) 

Peter’s pretty sure showering with burns was more painful than this. That’s the mantra that gets him through the process of washing up, applying a thick layer of antibiotic cream, and taping fresh gauze on with shaking fingers. Brushing his teeth with a broken finger must have hurt more. It _had_ to have been worse to pull jeans on over partially healed road rash.

He finds Aunt May in the kitchen with a mug of coffee and a big brownie in front of her, and another in Peter’s usual spot. Ben’s chair, unoccupied for nearly a year, is still pushed up at the side of the table he always favored, and the sight of it is almost enough to make Peter burst into tears.

“Morning, glory,” she smiles at him, looking so very _right_ sitting there in her threadbare robe.

It takes a concerted effort not to say something extremely sentimental and weird that will make her suspicious. So instead he says, “Brownies for breakfast?”

“All for you, sweetie,” she gestures towards the pan cooling on the oven. “Well, minus a corner piece for quality assurance purposes.”

“Proper QA is very important,” Peter replies, forcing a smile as he slides into the chair. He takes his first bite and make a very appreciative noise — Aunt May makes the best box-mix brownies. 

“You’re not allowed to share. All of these are for you,” she informs him as he occupies himself with his less-than nutritionally complete breakfast. “And I wrote a note about you missing class on Friday. I figured we could visit Ben’s grave, then go get lunch nearby and just… see where the rest of the day takes us.”

“That sounds…” Peter struggles for the right word. ‘Nice’ doesn’t seem appropriate. He settles on, “Good.”

“Good,” May repeats. Then she pats him on the cheek, gives him a quick kiss on the forehead, and yawns. “I’m going to go back to bed. Kick butt at school, Peter.”

Peter stands as well, abruptly enough to make May jump a little. “Need my hug,” he explains.

“Of course.” May wraps Peter in her arms and holds him close. Peter leans into it a little more than usual, but he thinks that’s okay given the circumstances. He’s a little reluctant to let her go, even, but he has to get to the train station soon and May wants to go back to bed.

“Sleep well,” he says by way of a farewell when he finally releases her. That’s one of the things about their hugs that Peter loves; May always lets him decide their length.

“Oh, I intend to.” May sounds like a woman on a mission as she ambles out of the kitchen.

Autopilot gets Peter to school and has him stiff-legging it to the office to convert Aunt May’s note into the official slip to inform teachers of his upcoming absence. It’s not a complicated process, or at least it shouldn’t be, except that Mr. Dukakis doesn’t seem to want to do it.

“We usually like to give teachers at least a week’s notice,” he says, frowning at the note.

“I just got it today,” Peter shrugs, not sure what Mr. Dukakis wants him to do about it.

“It’s _Wednesday_ , Mr. Parker. This note is for Friday. Friday _this week_ ,” Mr. Dukakis states, as if somehow it will somehow change anything. At this rate Peter’s going to be late for class, and he doubts he’ll get a late slip from the man-shaped wall of pedantry currently staring him down. He contemplates just leaving and telling Aunt May to call him in sick on Friday. 

Then Ms. Nguyen sweeps in, steaming cat-shaped mug of tea in one hand, and rolls her eyes. “Doug,” she sighs, and plucks the note from his hands, “don’t be a dick.”

Mr. Dukakis puffs up, and Peter sees a mischievous glint in her eye as she ushers him over to her desk. The absence slip is filled out with dramatic flair, followed promptly by one excusing him for being tardy to his first period class. Peter probably doesn’t _need_ it, but he’s deeply thankful; running to his locker and then to class sounds like an entirely unnecessary test of his flagging endurance.

Getting that slip signed is about the only thing Peter manages to accomplish for the entire school day. The throbbing of his stitches, the bone-deep exhaustion, and the heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever he thinks about his incredible failure one year ago all combine into a miasma that makes him utterly incapable of following lectures or putting together coherent thoughts. If his teachers notice (which they must) then at least they’re merciful, not calling on him or reprimanding him for his clear lack of attention.

Just how obviously pitiful he looks becomes clear when MJ and Ned spend most of lunch trying to shove brownies into him rather than not-so-stealthily stealing a couple. They’re delicious, of course; Peter really does love Aunt May’s brownies. And it’s not that he’s not hungry, either. He pretty much always feels like a calorie blackhole, but especially when he’s been injured. Even so, it feels like too much effort to eat. He’s so _tired_.

Study hall sees him at very real risk of falling face first into his history textbook and accruing a material damage fee for drooling all over it.

“Okay, that’s it,” Harry groans, fake exasperation concealing very real concern, “nap time.”

Peter doesn’t fight it when Harry drags him towards the giant bean bag chairs in the back corner of the library. Despite how comfortable they are, they’re usually left vacant due to the scent of B.O. that seems to cling to them no matter how much ’extra strength’ deodorizing cleaner they get sprayed with. Apparently desperate times call for desperate measures. Peter slumps into one, only scrunching his nose up a little bit at the _eau de_ sweaty teen that crawls into his nose.

“I don’t wanna be late to my next class,” Peter complains weakly when Harry pulls Peter’s head down. But his eyes slide shut as soon as his head hits Harry’s shoulder.

“I’ll wake you up,” Harry murmurs. “Just rest, Pete.”

It’s not a particularly comfortable slumber. Harry’s bony shoulder makes Peter’s ear ache, and the way he has to twist to fit makes the waistband of his jeans dig painfully into the big gash on his hip. Even the smell chases him into his fitful, half-formed dreams. And yet, he sleeps.

When Harry shakes him awake, Peter isn’t sure if he’s annoyed or grateful. Probably grateful, because he could feel himself inching towards a nightmare, and he doesn’t really want to miss class. But he’s always a little resentful about being woken up, and Harry laughs at the grumpy nose-scrunch Peter directs at him as he gathers up his bag and heads to his next class.

Peter feels better for the nap, but it does have the unfortunate side effect of kicking his healing factor into hyperdrive. Which means, in a nutshell, that he itches. And hurts. He hurts and he itches simultaneously and he wants desperately to scratch at the stitches because they itch more than they hurt. Even the knowledge that scratching them will be _painful_ isn’t enough to stop him.

But then he remembers Mr. Castle’s stern warning not to scratch, and _that’s_ the thing that drops his hand away from his side.

So Peter is stuck in class, alternating between trying to keep his eyes open and trying to keep his hands away from his bandages. He doesn’t dare even touch them, not in class. No one pays that much attention to him, but if someone _does_ notice and they _do_ somehow make out the outline of bandages under his shirt, then he’ll be asked a whole lot of questions he doesn’t have the mental capacity to answer right now.

Then his phone starts vibrating with text after text, and he gives up on trying to sit normally and excuses himself to the bathroom. Sitting on a toilet seat in a locked stall, Peter finally lets himself lay his hand over the bandage on his ribs, where the itching is the worst. He doesn’t scratch at it, of course. He just kind of… rubs. Slowly. It _hurts._ It hurts badly enough to obliterate the itchiness from his mind and he supposes that’s all he can ask for at this point.

MJ, Ned, and Harry have been conferring in their group chat, and Peter lets out a relieved breath. Much better than yesterday’s series of irate texts from Aunt May.

 **MJ** : Osborn is escorting you home today, Parker. You look like you’re gonna pass out on the subway and Ned’s convinced you’re gonna go missing for several days then get dragged out of a shipping container by Daredevil.

 **MJ:** Also you’ll have somehow developed a crippling drug addiction.

 **Ned:** The traffickers use super addictive drugs to keep their victims compliant!

 **MJ:** Point is, we don’t want to see you being carried out a shipping container bridal style by Daredevil so Osborn is going home with you.

Peter’s got a reply typed out before he can think about it _(“With my luck it’d be The Punisher”)_ but he stops himself before he hits send. Too on the nose. He sighs.

 **Peter:** I’m fine, stop watching that true crime stuff, Ned.

He’s rolling his eyes at the indignant response from Ned when MJ sends a text just to him.

 **MJ:** 92% sure Norman is in a bad mood, Harry won’t say anything but I think he needs somewhere besides home to be for a few hours.

That stops Peter short.

 **Peter:** sure fine, will wait for you by my locker Harry. Don’t be late.

 **Harry:** Wouldn’t dream of it

Which is how Peter ends up squished against Harry for the second time that day, as they cram together on the train home. He doesn’t want to admit it, but having Harry with him is nice. He’s a good shield between Peter and the careless, jostling New York masses. He makes sure that they get off at the right stop when Peter nearly misses it, his head filled with grey static, too tired to process the overwhelming sensory input of the crowded train and his aching body.

The apartment is quiet when Peter and Harry arrive. For a moment Peter thinks May must be taking a nap, and feels a sudden rush of guilt at having brought Harry home without telling her. Then he sees the scrap of paper on the kitchen table.

There’s a lumpy little rabbit doodled at the top, then a hastily jotted note:

> _Going to run some errands before work, see you in the morning!_
> 
> _Don’t forget to eat dinner! I got clementines, cut up a pineapple and there’s a cucumber that needs to be eaten. This is me trying to encourage you to eat your fruits and veg after feeding you brownies for two meals today. Hint hint nudge nudge wink wink._
> 
> _I love you to the moon and back!_

Peter stares for a moment, his eyes sliding back up the doodle of the rabbit. May hasn’t done that in years.

Not since… 

He can’t remember the last time she drew that for him.

The bunny is him.

* * *

Back when he first came to stay with Aunt May and Uncle Ben, back when his parents had merely been missing not—not gone for good, they didn’t have any toys on hand for him except a Pat the Bunny stuffed animal and the accompanying book. They’d gotten it when Peter and his parents had visited when he was a baby.

May had read it to him, saying ‘Pete the Bunny’ instead of Pat, and making up all sorts of stories that Peter _knew_ weren’t in that book. He was Pete the Bunny for a few days until he’d insisted he needed big boy books. And so when Uncle Ben started sounding loud and angry into the phone, May had taken Peter to a cozy little bookshop.

They’d gotten a big, hardcover book of Beatrix Potter stories, and then they got ice cream even though they hadn’t had lunch yet and it would ruin his appetite. Ben was quiet and sad when they got home, and he held Peter and Pat the Bunny in his big lap while May read them _The Tale of Peter Rabbit_ . It was Peter’s favorite story for a long, long time, because it was the last story he got to hear when he was just _visiting_ his Uncle Ben and Aunt May. When it was just a few fun days with people who read him books that were meant for _babies_ , not five-year-olds, and got him ice cream cones before lunch. 

The last story read to a boy whose parents would be home soon.

After that, May read the Beatrix Potter book to Peter before bed every single night for a few years. Then, all of a sudden, she was never around. In retrospect, it can’t have been more than a few months that she was working so much overtime that it seemed the only time he saw her was when Ben would let him quietly creep into their room and cuddle up with her while she slept in their big, big bed. But to a lonely kid with abandonment issues, it felt like years.

That was when the bunnies first appeared. She started leaving post-it notes with doodles of bunnies every single day ( _That’s you, Pete the Bunny! This means you, Peter Rabbit!_ ) all of them saying how much she loved him.

When work finally calmed down, when she was actually there when Peter got home in the afternoons, Aunt May and Uncle Ben decided they needed to spend more quality time together. So they got a paperback copy of Watership Down and all took turns reading it to each other. Ben with his low, sonorous voice, Peter stumbling and stuttering his way through with lots of enthusiastic encouragement about his impressively high reading level for a second grader, and Aunt May, who always replaced ‘Pipkin’ with ‘Petekin.’ Peter pretended to hate it, but he secretly loved it whenever she said the name.

They read _Watership Down,_ and then _Tales From Watership Down,_ and then May’s work picked back up and they all got busy and then they never read together like that again.

Never ever.

* * *

Peter suddenly misses those hours spent reading to each other, the ache for _more_ tearing through him like another bullet to his chest. He’ll never read like that with Ben again, and it’s not fair that a year later he’s still finding new things to mourn.

“Peter?” Harry sounds concerned. Which is fair, because Peter’s eyes are welling up at the sight of a _bunny doodle_.

“Yep?” Peter wipes his eyes quickly and carefully folds and pockets the note.

“Is everything okay? With you and your aunt, I mean. You didn’t say anything about it at school, and it didn’t seem like the time to ask.” Harry shrugs, clearly uncomfortable.

“Oh! Yeah. No, everything’s good. I left a mess and she was tired and grumpy, and I think we’re both a little…” Peter trails off, unable to think of a single word vast enough to explain what they’re both ’a little’ right now. "Anyway she said she was sorry for snapping at me and we made plans for Friday and she made me brownies for breakfast. And lunch.”

“Alright,” Harry sounds dubious, but he doesn’t try to press any more, “if you say so.”

It strikes Peter that his friends don’t really know Aunt May. 

They’d only ever seen her in passing, traded polite ‘nice to see yous’ if they saw her at all, because she was always working odd shifts and doing overtime. Ben was the one who had always been around.

Uncle Ben was the one who kept an eye on their study sessions, ‘study sessions,’ and sleepovers. When a deeply embarrassed Ned had whispered to Peter that he couldn’t eat potatoes because he’d get a rash ( _not_ because he was allergic, he insisted), it was Uncle Ben who dipped out and reappeared with SunChips (along with ingredients for french toast, so Ned wouldn’t feel left out when he cooked breakfast for them all the next morning).

It was Uncle Ben who listened seriously to MJ, asking her all the right questions whenever she learned something new and terrible about the world, when Harry, Peter, and Ned lacked the patience and maturity to care. 

(Peter cares now. He listens now. He wishes he had back then.)

And it was Uncle Ben who would somehow convince Mr. Osborn to let Harry stay the night, even on school nights, when Harry was especially reluctant to go home.

Harry hasn’t slept over since Ben died. Peter’s top bunk, always reserved for Harry, is piled high with laundry and books. And Peter can’t have sleepovers now, not if he’s going to go out as Spider-Man.

Another thing lost. Another thing to mourn.

“I’m sorry,” Peter blurts.

“What?” Harry startles.

“I’m sorry I can’t have you over for sleepovers all the time anymore. I know they were—”

“Jesus, don’t worry about _that_.” Harry rolls his eyes, then grabs Peter’s shoulders and steers him toward the couch. “It’s fine, I’m fine, not having weeknight sleepovers isn’t the end of the world.”

“It’s important, though,” Peter murmurs. Because it _is_ important. Everything they’ve lost because of Peter’s terrible mistake is.

“I’m going to make pudding to cheer you up,” Harry announces. He narrows his eyes as he pushes Peter down on the couch, pulling the throw over him like that will be enough to pin Spider-Man down. Peter’s lips quirk in amusement at the thought. Harry smiles back.

“So where do you keep the cornstarch these days?”

* * *

Harry makes excellent pudding. It’s, like, his thing. The one culinary endeavor at which Harry Osborn excels. MJ thinks he should have invested in a more nutritious (or at least, more impressive)dish as the one and only thing he can make. If only for the sake of his own survival when he finally gets away from his dad and has to fend for himself.

Peter disagrees, because pudding is plenty impressive and Harry makes amazing pudding and Peter likes eating said pudding, thankyouverymuch. 

It’s cheering him up, eating a giant bowl of still-warm chocolate pudding while sitting on the couch pressed close against Harry. His wounds still hurt but not nearly as much, his healing factor doing what it does best (or maybe it’s just the magic pudding). Now that he’s curled up at home with his friend beside him and a pocket full of May’s love, he doesn’t feel quite so drained. It’s as if the pudding and the blanket and the note and Harry’s warm presence against him are all warding off the memory of the cold warehouse floor under his body. Guarding against the feeling of warm blood that isn’t his own cooling rapidly on a cracked sidewalk, a year before.

The cozy bubble of calm and safety can’t last, though. It’s starting to get dark and Harry has to go home, even if he seems as reluctant to leave their little hideaway on the couch as Peter.

“See you in study hall tomorrow?” Harry asks as he shoulders his backpack, half an hour later than he probably should have.

“Yeah.” Peter smiles. “Thanks for the pudding and the company.”

“No problemo,” Harry grins obnoxiously. “Figured you need a reminder of why you should totally stop blowing off my invitations to hang out.”

Peter’s face freezes and Harry suddenly looks panicked.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he rushes to amend. “Just don’t be a stranger is all.”

“Yeah. Of course. We’ll hang out again soon, I promise,” Peter says, with as much cheer and sincerity as he can muster.

Harry nods, his smile a little wobbly, and leaves.

The warm, safe feeling collapses entirely, and Peter scrambles off the couch.

He needs to do something good, something helpful. He needs to do it right now.

The feeling of Spider-Man suit against the stitches, even through the bandages, smarts in a way that tells Peter he isn’t as healed as he thought. The sudden, sharp pain when takes his first good swing between buildings confirms the suspicion.

Okay, so maybe coming out tonight was not a smart move. Peter is pretty much useless, and he needs to clean the kitchen up before May gets home anyhow. He should probably eat some of the pineapple and cucumber she cut up, too.

Except… well… he’s out now. He should do _something_. Part of him knows he should go back and check on the warehouse, but the thought is immediately followed by gut-roiling fear of what he might find there. Logically, he knows the people with the guns aren’t still there, waiting for him. He woke up in The Punisher’s home, and there’s only one way that would have happened, and it doesn’t involve anyone laying down arms and having a level-headed discussion.

He doesn’t want to know. Not for certain.

It probably means he’s a coward, and he’s probably dishonoring his Uncle’s memory, but Peter turns away from the warehouse and takes off towards an apartment far away from the memory of gunshots and hot blood.

Peter peeks carefully through the window, from a certain balcony where he had left a certain dog. The dog is glossy and clean, sporting a brand new purple collar with a big fabric flower affixed to it. She looks transcendentally joyful about the fingers scritching at the spot right above her tail.

“Who’s my best girl?” the woman croons.

The dog wags her tail frantically.

“You’re right Violet, it’s you!”

Violet is a good name for a dog. Peter is ecstatic to have made a stranger and a stray dog happy with his incredible matchmaking skills.

But as happy as he is about Violet and her new human finding each other, Peter is also increasingly aware of things sliding around disturbingly under his suit. The adhesive on the tape he used to secure the gauze is giving up the ghost in the face of his acrobatics and subsequent sweating.

Great. It’s as good a cue as any to head back home.

Cleaning up the absolute mess he made of both his suit and the bandages keeps his mind off other, heavier, things. He did manage to tear himself back open in a couple of places, if the blood is any indication. Thankfully the bleeding has already stopped. Hopefully his lapse in judgment won’t be noticeable by Saturday evening.

By the time he falls asleep at midnight, Peter has managed to supplant his anxiety about Harry with anxiety about the Punisher noticing that his wounds got reopened.

He dreams of calloused hands and a deep rumbling voice telling him to be okay even as it cusses him out for being a dumbass.

* * *

Peter wakes up well before his alarm, the itching bad enough that he wants to writhe out of his skin. Apparently re-injuring himself followed by enough rest to start healing is a bad combination. Frantic, half-conscious research leads him to an article about using capsaicin cream to treat chronic itching.

After a clumsy search, hindered by attempts to gently _pat_ the painful prickling in his skin, he manages to unearth Aunt May’s jar of Tiger Balm. It’s not capsaicin cream, but it’s the closest thing he’s got.

Peter tears back a bandage, swipes a big glob of the goo onto his fingers, and smears it all over.

His alarm starts blaring while he’s curled around himself on the bathroom rug, trying not to screech at the burn.

He checks out mentally after that. Nothing important ever happens at school on Thursdays, anyway.

* * *

The extra rest from Thursday night’s decision to put the Spider-Man suit in the time-out corner was apparently enough for Peter’s body to get past the awful ’nerves reconnecting’ phase. He’ll take the good luck: it’s really the only thing has to feel good about when he gets up Friday morning, an hour later than his alarm usually goes off.

May is in the kitchen, struggling valiantly with a spoon against a tube of cinnamon roll dough. Peter watches for a moment before swooping in to the rescue, popping the cardboard open with ease. At least his strength is good for _something._

“Thanks, bun.” She gives him a watery smile.

If there are tears in both their eyes, it’s only because May’s signature store-bought cinnamon rolls are just that good.

And then it’s time to go.

* * *

Peter hasn’t been back to the cemetery in almost a year.

It feels weird. Unfamiliar. There are trees he doesn’t recognize, even though they must have been here. They’re full grown _trees,_ not saplings, and they’re probably older than he is, but he has absolutely no recollection of there being a giant sycamore thirty yards from Ben’s grave. That seems like something he would have noticed, _should_ have noticed, because Ben always did like big old trees.

They say that funerals offer closure for the living, but there is nothing like ’closure’ about the blur that marks that day in Peter’s mind. He vividly remembers holding Ben’s hand as it went slack in his grip, and then everything went hazy. It just all happened so fast. Ben was dying, then he was dead, then Peter was in a suit at the synagogue and a blink later he was in the cemetery and the rabbi was saying words he couldn’t quite parse through the roaring in his head.

Back in those early days after the bite, it was so _easy_ to get lost. He can’t remember what the rabbi said, can only half-remember his own faltering attempts to form his numb lips into the right shapes to recite the Kaddish. What he does remember, though, is the smell. He remembers the pine of the casket. He remembers the first horrifying hints of rot. Of dirt, dirt he’d held in his hand and dropped into the gaping wound in the ground where Ben lay, like the gaping wound in his heart where Ben had been ripped out.

The cemetery is peaceful today, his mind clear and his heart beating steadily, even if it does still ache. They’re in the area separated from the rest by a little gravel road that crunches pleasantly under his shoes. Grass has grown over the grave, and it slumps ever so slightly.

Peter wonders how much, if any, of Ben is still in that grave. When his parents died, his uncle had held him in his lap and said Richard and Mary were together and at peace, their souls slowly parting from their bodies. For years, Peter had comforted himself with visions of his mom and dad’s souls intertwined, shedding their bodies like a molting spider.

May shifts beside him, frowning intently at the half-finished headstone. For a second, Peter imagines his name carved next to Ben’s. If not for The Punisher’s intervention it likely would be, with Peter’s grave dirt spilling messily all over Ben’s peaceful resting place. Disrupting and disturbing his afterlife just like Peter had done his real life.

And _May_ . What would that have done to May? If she had opened the door to his room to apologize to him, and found the bed empty… would she have called him in as a missing person? Or would she have waited for him to come back, assuming he would come home after he calmed down? Would she have still baked those brownies and waited for him to come home, only to get the call that they’d found his body in that warehouse? How long would that have taken? Would she have been here today, on _Ben’s_ day, watching yet another Parker be lowered into the ground?

Or maybe — 

“I’ve never been fond of cemeteries,” May interrupts his thoughts. “I’m not superstitious or anything, it’s just…” she trails off. Peter reaches out and takes her hand, unsure of what to say but wanting her to know he’s there and listening.

She gives him a short, tight smile and squeezes his hand before her eyes return to Ben’s name carved in stone.

“When I was little, the family dog died,” she says, her voice a strained attempt at ’conversational’. “Daisy. My dad buried him in a cardboard box in the yard. Except, not too long after, they had to dig the box back up.”

Her throat works as she swallows. “The box was flimsy and wet, and Daisy was a little chubby. It tore, and I saw it. This awful, rotting mass of flesh and fur and… other things… that had been Daisy. Things that were feasting on what had been Daisy. It was horrible.”

“Sounds awful,” Peter chokes out, trying not to remember the heavy, still weight of some poor family’s beloved pet in his arms.

“Mmm,” May nods, then continues. “I wasn’t much older when one of my great aunts died. We went to her funeral, and then the burial. I couldn’t stop thinking of Daisy in his little cardboard box. When I saw the hole and the headstone with her name on it, it clicked in my head that every single headstone in the entire cemetery had a dead, rotting _person_ buried under it.” May shudders. “And I imagined her being lowered into this fetid morass of… of human _rot_ and I couldn’t stop screaming. My parents had to take me home, because I couldn’t stand to be in that cemetery. Not with what I imagined was just beneath the surface.”

May takes a deep, steadying breath.

“I had night terrors. Nightmares about a giant mass of rotting flesh reaching out with dead hands to drag me underground. I was so afraid of going down there. In the earth. It went on for months. My parents couldn’t figure out what to do. Finally, my mom sat me down, explained cremation in great detail for me, and promised that when I died I could be cremated. I made her promise that they wouldn’t even bury the ashes.” May laughs humorlessly. “And when I got older I found all sorts of logical reasons why it was better to be burned to ash and left to drift in the wind than be buried, just in case anyone asked. But that stinking, decaying _meat_ reaching out from the graves with rotting hands… it never left me.”

She pauses for a moment, collecting herself. The cemetery feels a whole lot less restful, all of a sudden. Peter imagines it like May described; he’s seen roadkill before, seen dead rats, left to decompose in the moist heat of summer. Maybe instead of his peaceful departure, Ben is down there rotting and reaching, resenting Peter for his failures. Hadn’t his Uncle always been there for him? Hadn’t he been good? How could Peter let him down the one time Ben needed him?

Peter’s jaw aches and he makes himself to relax. That thinking does no good right now. May needs him present. Peter takes a deep breath and puts Ben back into his gentle slumber. Where he belongs. Where he deserves to be.

“Anyway. Funeral arrangements aren’t something you discuss a whole lot when you’re dating. Not even when you’re deciding if you should get married and settle down and build the rest of your lives together. You ask questions like ‘do we want kids’ and ‘should we try to get a house out in the suburbs’. But you don’t talk about what you want done with your corpse.”

“I never hid the fact that I wanted to be cremated, or that I hated cemeteries. I think I must have joked about it at least a little. Enough for Ben to have some idea, because when …” May trails off, glancing at Peter sadly. “Well, there was a lot happening. We were both distraught. Ben got hung up on this idea that he wanted us buried side by side, so we could rest together for eternity.”

It reminds Peter of that fairy-tale version of his parents’ death that Ben had told him when he was little.

“But all I thought of was that fetid mass of flesh. Being buried was the last thing I wanted. I tried to explain, you know? Not the… not about Daisy or my great aunt and that day in the cemetery. That was just silly and illogical. But my logic didn’t work. He was so insistent. We were just both so, so upset about so many other things…”

Unshed tears threaten to spill over onto her cheeks, and she has to take a moment to catch her breath before continuing.

“It turned into a terrible fight. I felt backed into a corner. I said some very unkind things, things I regretted. Things I regret. And then I refused to ever talk about it again. Whenever he’d bring it up I’d change the subject. Or if he wouldn’t let me change the subject I’d walk away. I was waiting for it to get easier to talk about; we both had plenty of time before we had to worry about that.”

“And then you didn’t.” Peter does his best not to let the strain he’s feeling slip into his voice. He doesn’t want to be hearing this — hearing about any turmoil in what he had always imagined to be as perfect a partnership as any two people could manage — on the day that they’re meant to be celebrating Uncle Ben’s memory. 

“And then we didn’t,” May agrees. “Ben had already bought the plots, did you know? Right here in the interfaith area of the cemetery. About as soon as it was established, years ago. I didn’t find out until he… he…” she wipes at her face aggressively with her free hand, refusing to let Peter’s go. “And I was a little bit mad about it! Can you imagine? But my first impulse was still anger, because he made that decision without me, knowing how strongly I felt. I… I tried to imagine it. When we buried him. I tried to picture that beautiful, fanciful version of being buried. It all sounds so pretty the way Ben talked about it.”

Beautiful, shining souls slowly pulling away from their old husks.

“But I couldn’t. Can’t. I still don’t want to be buried.” She sounds so small, so _defeated_ as she sways on her feet. “I guess it makes me a bad wife, that I’m not going to do it. I won’t even be alive to be upset, so why should it bother me?”

Peter doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what to do except step closer and lend support against whatever cold wind is sweeping through her.

“But it does,” she whispers. “It really, really does.”

Peter’s throat sticks.

What would Spider-Man say, to someone alone and hurting like this?

“I don’t think Uncle Ben would want you to be afraid like that. I think he’d rather you… you be free. On the wind. I think he’d like to imagine you like that.” Peter knows it’s not quite _right_ , but maybe it’s enough, because May gives his fingers a little squeeze, and forces the glimmer of a watery smile.

“Let’s go get some lunch,” she husks.

* * *

It’s a good day, or at least as good as it can be. Under the circumstances. They walk to Ben’s favorite Indian place (Ben loved it, even if his intestines didn’t always agree). Then they meander over to the restaurant where May proposed to Ben, and Peter laughs until he almost cries at May’s evocative re-enactment of his face when she pulled out (and then proceeded to drop) the ring. The building is a bookstore now, and May lets him stay and pet the bookstore cat for as long as he likes. On their way out, she presses something into his hands.

A well-loved copy of a Beatrix Potter’s _The Tale of Peter Rabbit._

So, all in all, a good day. It’s never going to be okay, never going to feel like it did, but a little something eases in Peter’s chest, like maybe he’s finally allowed to heal.

The next afternoon, May has to go run errands and then go into work for a few hours. Most of Peter doesn’t want her to go; she looks so rundown and tired and Peter wants her to get enough rest to look like _herself_ again.

A little part of him is thankful. It means he doesn’t have to make an excuse for why he’s slipping out, doesn’t have to sneak into an alley to change into his Spider-Man suit. 

He doesn’t need to explain the paper bag full of clothes held close as he swings through the city, heading towards an address scrawled on a strangely cute dog-shaped sticky note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out WaterMe's amazing and depressing SpideyPool Noir, featuring some amazing art: [Three Steps to Inferno](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29384283/chapters/72185220%22). You won't regret it!
> 
> Y_ellow co-wrote an epistolary SpideyPool fic with me that we're both really proud of! Not to self-promote, but you should check it out. Frank and Max even make a cameo. Also there's awesome art! [To You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29096850/chapters/71424966)
> 
> high_functioning_sociopath has a sweet little SpideyPool Hannukah fic for people wanting some more cheerful Jewish Peter Parker called [A Week and a Day (of Love for You)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28093641). Or if you want to see some serious Peter Whump, then check out their Spiderio fic [Grow Up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28252875) (make sure to check the tags)!


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